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COMEDIES OF WORDS AND 
OTHER PLAYS 








Stewart Kidd Dramatic Publications 








Tue TrutH ABOUT THE THEATER............ Anonymous $1.25 
BRITISH AND AMERICAN DRAMA OF Topay.. Barrett H. Clark 2.50 
EUROPEAN THEORIES OF THE DRAMA...... Barrett H. Clark 5.00 
CONTEMPORARY FRENCH DRAMATISTS...... Barrett H. Clark 2.50 
Four PLAYs OF THE FREE THEATER.......Barrett H. Clark 2.50 
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THe CHANGING DRAMA..............- Archibald Henderson 2.50 
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GEoRGE BERNARD SHAW: His LIFE AND Works. .Henderson 7.50 
Five Ons-ActT COMEDIES............... Lawrence Langner 2.00 
SHORTIELAYS sneha ttt ie nee Mary MacMillan 2.50 
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‘Tarp: Book oF SHORT PLAYS: =... 53.2. Mary MacMillan 2.50 
PRR AGERE yc iortr tt iain as settee wren Margaret Douglas Rogers 1.00 

COMEDIES OF WorDs AND OTHER PLAYS 
Arthur Schnitzler, Translated by Pierre Loving 2.50 

Firty CONTEMPORARY ONE-AcT PLAYS 
Compiled by Frank Shay & Pierre Loving 5.00 

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Stewart Kidd Modern Plays 
Edited by FRANK SHAY 

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More to follow. 








COMEDIES OF WORDS 


AND 


OUTER euAYS 


BY 


ARTHUR SCHNITZLER 


ENGLISHED FROM THE GERMAN 
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 


PIERRE LOVING 


THIRD PRINTING 


CINCINNATI 


STEWART KIDD COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY 


STEWART KIDD COMPANY 





All Rights Reserved 


These plays are fully protected by the copyright law. For permis- 
sion to produce any one of them application must be made to the 
publishers, Stewart Kidd Company, Cincinnati, Ohio 


Published May, 1917 
Second Priniing December, 1917 
Third Printing May, 1923 


Printed in the United States of America 
THE CAXTON PRESS 
““Foerybody for books.” This is one of the Interlaken Library 


sivialy 


To The International my acknowledg- 
ments are due for permission to reprint sev- 
eral of the translations contained in this 
volume. 

Pos 


CONTENTS 


INTRODUCTION 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 
THE Hour oF RECOGNITION . 
THE Bic SCENE . 
THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS . 


OTHER PAYS 
LITERATURE . 
His HELPMATE . 


ae dy 


. 160 


INTRODUCTION 


To the great mass of the American public 
Arthur Schintzler, admittedly the finest psychol- 
ogist in the theatre today, is still as it were some- 
thing of a far half-rumored country upon whose 
bourne the proverbial tired pedestrian seldom 
touches. As a people, whether intensively or ex- 
tensively, we haven’t as yet cultivated the habit of 
‘turning up the lamp after coffee and liqueurs for 
the purpose of abandoning ourselves without re- 
serve to a refined spirit, a subtle mind reaching out 
with infinite circumspectness and tact. Tact has 
its peculiar morality in the same way that art has 
its implied ethics. This tact when applied to the 
province of thought may simply mean that the 
world is not an affair of sharp lines, rules or data. 
It is this quality emanating from just such a spirit 
and mind that we find uppermost in Arthur 
Schnitzler. 

In Europe Schnitzler’s dramatic pieces are ranked 
on a par with those of his German confréres, 
Hauptmann and Wedekind. The keenly discern- 
ing Berlin and Munich audiences, not wholly free 
from an acute national consciousness, concede him 
a place immediately after these two in their affec- 
tions. But in view of the fact that Schnitzler is 
uniquely abreast, if not a few hurdles ahead, of 
his time in handling that vein of character analysis 
which utilizes most effectively the latest discover- 

vil 


INTRODUCTION 








ies of psychic and psychological research, it is not 
at all improbable that the ultimate tribunal of 
playgoers will insphere him higher than either 
Hauptmann or Wedekind. As long as men and 
women will continue to be intrigued by the elusive 
enigma of life, by subtle states of the soul, by 
problems of the subliminal self, so long, we may 
venture to predict, will the plays of Arthur 
Schnitzler compel attention from the truly great 
audiences of the world which, as Whitman real- 
ized, are the indispensable abettors of progress 
in every art. 

Arthur Schnitzler was born in 1862. His fa- 
ther, Johann Schnitzler, was a famous laryngol- 
ogist. Following in his father’s footsteps or 
rather compelled to follow, he studied medicine 
and obtained his degree from the University of 
Vienna in 1885. He was appointed assistant phy- 
sician at the Clinical Hospital, one of the largest 
of its kind, in 1889. Meanwhile he was acting as 
contributing editor to his father’s medical review 
Wiener Klinische Rundschau. At this period we 
notice that he also contributed poems, stories and 
sketches to other publications. He seems to have 
applied himself whole-heartedly to investigations 
in psychic phenomena, for he published an article 
about this time on the treatment of certain diseases 
by hypnotism and suggestion. Then followed a 
trip to London, not altogether for pleasure, for it 
bore fruit in the shape of a series of ‘‘ London 
Letters’ contributed to his father’s review and 
exclusively devoted to medical subjects of wide 
range and variety. His original writings and 
collaborations on these subjects, together with his 

Vill 


INTRODUCTION 





= 


occasional excursions into fascinating byways of 
medicine, are too numerous to mention here. Suf- 
fice it that they culminated in an exhaustive refer- 
ence work compiled in association with the elder 
Schnitzler, entitled “ Clinical Atlas of Laryngol- 
ogy and Rhinology.”’ From that time until this, 
despite his beckoning interests and undoubted 
genius and recognition in creative literature, he 
has maintained his intimate connection with the 
Clinical Hospital and still, as if they constituted a 
labor of first love, unremittingly attends to his pri- 
vate activities as a general practitioner. 

Schnitzler’s first play ‘‘ Anatol,” a cycle of 
dialogues written around a central character ap- 
pearing in each, was probably finished in 1889; 
it was produced in 1892. The success of 
‘“ Anatol” was immediate. Its wit and its shrewd 
grasp of human nature captured Vienna like a 
storm. Up to the time of this writing he has 
written and produced about twenty five plays; 
his last, big play, ‘‘ Professor Bernhardi” (1912), 
having started a wild sensation, crimination and 
recrimination, throughout the whole of Austria 
and Germany; while, on the other hand, his 
marvellous activity both as a novelist and short 
story writer has prompted criticism, outside of 
Austria and Germany, to deliberately couple his 
name with the names of Zola, Dostoievsky and 
de Maupassant. 

The fact that in private life Schnitzler is a prac- 
tising physician says much. It is significant and 
infinitely suggestive along the path of a sound ap- 
preciation and appraisal of the man. It is the 
key, without doubt, to a proper and final under- 

1X 





INTRODUCTION 








standing of his work in that it helps to throw 
light on his tenderness and on that peculiar in- 
cisive dissection of human yearnings and the daily 
stock of human foibles standing out on every 
page of his novels, tales and plays; in short, those 
poignant diagnoses of the soul, instinct rather 
than patent in everything he has set his hand to, 
which are as inexorable as they are expert. ‘This 
fact, as I have indicated, provides the touchstone 
to his writings which, quite possibly, we would 
otherwise miss. But it scarcely satisfies, I need 
hardly say — perhaps only serves to fan all the 
more — the idle though wholly pardonable curios- 
ity of those prying critcs who are avid to know how 
the physician manages to filch time out of his prac- 
tise to give to what must, after all, be the more 
absorbing career: how, in a word, he has suc- 
ceeded in crowding-in the long roll of his superb 
plays. 

As a writer, whether in the realm of the novel or 
the theatre, Schnitzler hardly ever repudiates his 
origin and source; for he is first and foremost the 
child of Vienna — Viennese of the Viennese. 
Though this explains a good deal it does not, on 
the other hand, suggest the whole full-statured 
man. Inevitably the atmosphere and life of the 
gay Austrian capital, surcharged with haunting 
tenderness and almost insolent indifference, have 
lent their tone and invested his work, from be- 
ginning to end, with a racy resilience peculiar to 
the city; but certainly it cannot be urged that he 
is indebted to it for that larger vision and scope 
which transcend all local boundaries and reach up 

x 


INTRODUCTION 








to eternity. That is inalienably his own; that is 
from the gods. 

If, as in a sore crisis of misgiving, Grillparzer, 
Vienna’s noblest poet, is reputed to have said, 
‘They are a Pheacian folk,” then it is more than 
evident that Schnitzler is no sort of Ulysses cast 
up by wind and tide on the shore of the “‘ Blue 
Danube” to play ducks and drakes with their 
sunny, smiling placidity. No man is altogether 
free of his social and artistic environment. And 
Schnitzler, like the rest, is no disconcerting ex- 
ception to this well-worn commonplace. As 
Elizabethan London was directly responsible for 
and gave birth to Shakespeare, so modern Vienna 
in a sense anticipated and produced Arthur 
Schnitzler. London had its Mermaid Tavern 
and there is in Vienna a restaurant where the 
young Viennese spirits of twenty years or so ago, 
Bahr, Schnitzler and von Hoffmannsthal used to 
foregather and thresh out their theories of art 
and life. Dostoievsky, with his immortal pity 
and self-abnegation; Zola with his biologic natu- 
ralism; de Maupassant, Ibsen and Oscar Wilde 
held them enthralled. The naturalism which they 
absorbed from these writers they attempted to 
apply to the life about them. Bahr became in- 
terested in social problems of the day, von Hoft- 
mannsthal in a new and more close interpreta- 
tion of nature, in a new beauty of language, and 
Schnitzler in the everlasting problem of the soul. 

Hauptmann is of the North, and you will find 
woven deep in the fibre of his creations the un- 
couth cry and ruggedness of the North. Pro- 

xi 


INTRODUCTION 








fessor Ludwig Lewisohn, Hauptmann’s trans- 
lator, has recently said of the latter’s men and 
women that they are “impelled by hunger, by 
lust, by the primitive will to power, by aspiration. 
They have little eloquence of speech or grace or 
gesture, but move as by our own woes which are 
also the unconquerable woes of the world. ‘The 
disharmonies between themselves and the universe 
are tragic and final. Humble souls though they 
are, they perish of elemental needs and are cru- 
cified in great causes. They are not beautiful, 
they are not wise, they are not pure; they are only 
broken and imperfect members of the family of 
man.” Schnitzler on the other hand is of the 
South, and accordingly he is permeated through 
and through with the frail warmth, the insouciant 
grace and sappy charm— phrases that come 
glibly and naturally to the lips, like a byword, 
whenever one is speaking of Vienna. These 
qualities, so apparent in Schnitzler, are of course 
winning in themselves, but in him they are further 
shot through with a vein of piquant intrigue which 
is, for the most part, Gallic in texture and tradi- 
tion — more Gallic, [ am almost tempted to say, 
than that which operates in Paris itself. 

There is a cross-section of Austrian society 
and politics which offers an inviting target to the 
weapons of the alert, timely satirist; and Schnitz- 
ler, like Shaw, has not been reticent in this re- 
spect. Both in his novels and plays he has at 
various times attacked socialism, monarchism, the 
aristocracy, semitism and anti-semitism, the latter 
being a question which is always more or less of 
an open sore in Vienna. In “ The Road to the 

xii 


INTRODUCTION 








’ 


Open,” a novel, he treats at considerable length 
but, true to the tradition of the satirist, with mor- 
dant disinterestedness (though this is not the main 
theme of the-book) this question in its several 
phases and shows the ridiculous types it breeds on 
both sides. In ‘‘ Lieutenant Gustl,’’ another 
novel, he remorselessly hacks to pieces the out- 
worn sentimental code of honor prevalent in Eu- 
rope. In ‘Professor Bernhardi,” his great 
womanless play (there is but one female charac- 
ter and she is minor), he touches on the problem 
of free conscience, the right to act as you think 
no matter what those about you believe — the 
same problem, in fact, which was treated by 
Ibsen in “‘ An Enemy of the People ’— to which 
play indeed it bears a strong resemblance, and 
more recently, by Galsworthy in “‘ The Mob.” 
Unlike Hauptmann who, it might be said, re- 
sembles him only in the point which is their mu- 
tual departure, Schnitzler is above all a consum- 
mate master of the theatre. He writes prima- 
rily for the stage, that is, not for any experimen- 
tal or local stage, but for the stage of the world. 
Perhaps for the potential stage of the world, 
whose advent, in company with Brieux and Tche- 
kov and Shaw, he is helping to bring about. And 
yet, paradoxical as it may appear to us who are 
accustomed to the ephemeral flummery of Broad- 
way, he has carved his way to an indubita- 
ble niche among the great German stylists throned 
above time. In delicacy, in finesse, in that man- 
ner of tact which is the essence of good style, he 
far surpasses his North German contemporary. 
This gift alone would be but a dubious advantage, 
xiil 


INTRODUCTION 








were it not for the force and ecstasy beneath the 
surface vesture. Schnitzler’s breadth is well illus- 
trated by the fact that fused in his work are such 
antinomous elements as savoury wit and mysti- 
cism — the mysticism of Maeterlinck and Ruys- 
broeck, and this mysticism is mingled with the 
irony, the prose-lyricism of Heinrich Heine. But 
outstripping these qualities, or a part of them, is a 
sure sense of the dramatic, of the most desirable 
aspects of the theatre as it is. 

Schnitzler’s unforgivingly satirical side pre- 
sents only one expression of a deep and deliberate 
outlook on life. Nowadays in discussing the 
passing drama of the boards we are apt to lose 
sight of this fact; so few writers for the stage 
have anything to say, or do not say it. The 
printed drama has of course received its fair meed 
of literary comment. Schnitzler, I wish to em- 
phasize, writes for the stage and he has some- 
thing to say. 

Precisely what his outlook on life is and by 
what processes it has been arrived at, cannot be 
here summarily stated, even supposing all the 
biographical minutie at our disposal. We may 
dismiss it, if we please, by the all-inclusive gen- 
eralization (at best all generalizations are a form 
of hedging) that every significant dramatist from 
Sophocles to Tchekov and Dunsany has, in some 
measure, possessed it. Sophocles, for example 
gave utterance to it in ‘‘ Q‘dipus Rex” and the 
‘‘ Antigone,” Shakespeare most overwhelmingly 
in ‘‘ Hamlet’ and in Macbeth’: Galderonvin 
iLifesis a Dream, . Pt -you are ‘one of those 
who already read and care for Schnitzler at all, 

XIV 


INTRODUCTION 








it will hardly be a piece of startling news to 
you when I assert that something of the magic 
and the breadth and the truth which attaches to 
these great names attaches also to him at his 
highest. 

Man, Schnitzler seems to imply, and does 
actually declare through his living characters and 
the huge crises which grip them, is an out-and- 
out egoist and life an iridescent illusion. To 
delve down to fundamentals at once, man is al- 
ways tinkering, by thought and act, to establish 
the earth and his busy little existence, with its 
trivial joys and irrelevant subjective tumults, as 
the central pivot of all life in the same way that 
Dante naively seized on Jerusalem, a religious 
and therefore a subjective ideal, as the very heart 
of the universe. It may be that Dante was in- 
tuitively right and nothing matters in the last 
analysis but what we feel and think. Samuel 
Butler, crabbed saint and celibate, pointed out to 
a deaf generation too taken up with Huxley to 
give ear, how difficult it is to cleave thought 
from language, and it is an axiom among thinkers 
in general that it is quite hopeless to comprehend 
the universe outside of man’s finite consciousness. 
Schnitzler accepts this hypothesis or cul-de-sac, 
whichever you choose to call it, and the whole 
substance of his reaction is that, no matter how 
diligently a man may labor to penetrate to the es- 
sential core of things, illusion, or what goes by the 
name of illusion with us, will always confusingly 
blend with reality in our consciousness and vice 
versa. We have, after all, but five shallow 
senses: we come into this life armed as it were 

XV 


INTRODUCTION 








with but five shallow and desperately inadequate 
dictaphones to dangle out blindly into space 
among the stars in order that we might — with 
how much thought-teasing! —“ gather in a small 
part of the infinite influences that vibrate in na- 
ture.” In illustration of this sensitive reaction, 
take the following lines which are not quoted 
from Calderon or Shakespeare, but from “‘ Para- 
celsus,” Schnitzler’s one act play in verse: 


“ Our life is wrought of dreams and waking, fused 
Of truth and lies. There lives no certitude. 
Of others we know naught, naught of ourselves, 
We play a part and wise is he who knows it.” 


Very sketchily then, this is the background of 
Schnitzler’s art; on the thought that illusion and 
reality are interchangeable terms for man Schnitz- 
ler has erected four-square the fascinating edifice 
of his plays. It constitutes a viewpoint —a 
quickened viewpoint, despite its limitations as 
a regular work-a-day diet. And the dramatist 
whose appeal is to surmount the merely local, 
whose work is to persist beyond the passing mo- 
ment, must give proof of such a viewpoint which 
pithily and suggestively comprises what he thinks 
about life. It is a pledge in a sense that he has 
indeed lived, or that he has overtaken life and 
is therefore eligible to the office of holding up 
the priceless mirror. The Germans, as a nation 
of critics, have always more or less known the 
true value of the word ‘viewpoint’? Weltan- 
schauung, and to them it signifies chiefly the acid 
test, cruel in rejection, by which they challenge 
every claim to greatness in art. ‘This should not 

Xvi 


INTRODUCTION 








be construed into meaning that the writer or the 
artist must consciously start out on a kind of 
Arthurian quest in order to achieve it. Rarely, 
if ever, is it achieved that way. Whether he is 
born with it or merely reaps it upon the glebe 
of experience sown with blood and suffering, 
ultimately matters but little. The fact is that the 
artist must have it; it is the secret and enigma of 
genius; and the fact of his having it singles him 
out at once from the vast common litter of lesser 
men. 

Though starting from a vastly diverse experi- 
ence, Schnitzler has come to look on nature with 
dim shadowy eyes, not unlike those of Joseph 
Conrad. I do not wish to press the comparison 
unduly. If you will put the portrait of Conrad 
alongside the portrait of Schnitzler and allow suf- 
ficiently for obvious racial chiselling which marks 
certain differences, the emotional depths, the tem- 
peramental force common to both men, will im- 
mediately become evident to you. You might 
say, referring to the former’s work, that he has 
been rarely known to smile while the latter, 
slightly more sophisticated, is always wearing a 
creased smile about his lips that is also in the 
nature of a gird. In the view of both, however, 
there is a destiny which fashions us to alien ends. 
There is a greater similarity than a superficial 
consideration affords between the characters of 
Lord Jim and Young Medardus, between Heyst 
and Young Medardus. For both the Pole and 
the Austrian, at all events, men and women are 
hardly more than the dead ashes of withered 
dreams swept helter-skelter by the imperious ty- 

XVii 


INTRODUCTION 








phoons of chance: and if it should befall that one, 
bolder than the rest, endeavors to orient whither 
he is drifting beyond Time and Space, he is imme- 
diately thrust back by blowing winds, and all that 
is vouchsafed him at the end of the quest is the 
clanging of mighty doors. This is not a fable 
by Schnitzler, but it might be. You might, for 
instance, die like Lord Jim, having fulfilled your 
destiny without suspecting it; or you might be one 
of those luckless ones for whom despair and de- 
lirium, like snarling cerberi, lie in wait. This 
latter viewpoint is searchingly symbolised in 
Schnitzler’s tale called ‘‘ The Threefold Admon- 
ishment.”’ 

Schnitzler’s plays, the least equally with the 
greatest, grow logically out of this conception. 
Criticism proceeds inductively. Schnitzler has 
written the plays and the critic, seeking the es- 
sence of the man, saddles him with a conception 
of life. Other interpretations, I have no doubt, 
are possible. When you are dealing with a big 
man like Schnitzler, it is simply fatuous to attempt 
to pigeon-hole him. Whatever else Schnitzler 
may do, certainly, it must be admitted, he sounds 
the strident note of irony, the helpless mistaking 
of illusion for reality, reality for illusion. It 
would, I think, require more than a mere journey- 
man’s task to find in all literature a more striking, 
a more ingenious illustration of the viewpoint 
cited above than is to be found in the one act 
play “ The Green Cockatoo.” 

All of Schnitzler’s plays of tragic import, in ac- 
cordance with this viewpoint, have their satirical 
and comic side and running right through his 

XViii 


INTRODUCTION 








comedies there is an immanent vein of tragedy. 
For Schnitzler the universe, taken all in all, is 
tragic. ‘The reason is simple. If a man writes 
comedy with a tragic hand, or weaves a deeper 
philosophy behind the play of wit, there is no 
telling how much he has thought about and 
through the life he is portraying; his thought has 
probably risen to the pitch of the universal and 
that, if it means anything, means, in the case of a 
dramatist, that he is a pessimist. 

And yet in Schnitzler’s plays the tragic element 
is kept perennially delicate and discreet. Our 
author tolerates no tearing of a passion to tat- 
ters, no truculent mouthing and so he has fash- 
ioned, in answer to his mood, well-bred people 
who consider it decidedly below them to fly pas- 
sionately in the face of Destiny. ‘‘ Abandon ye 
all vehemence who enter here” he seems to cau- 
tion his dramatis persone previous to their en- 
trance upon the three hours’ traffic of the stage. 
Still, you cannot urge that they are not intensely 
real people who act and speak in a very real 
way: certainly they are insouciant and casuistical 
about this and that; certainly they punctuate their 
languid utterances with little specious lies and 
tinsel half-truths about themselves and life in 
general; but they are real and large as life itself. 
As Hugo von Hoffmannsthal, speaking of them, 
has said: ‘‘ They are like artists and writers 
who have gathered of an evening in front of 
the fireplace of one of their confréres. The fur- 
nishings are elegant and commodious and the 
lamp is turned down. They have quite forgot- 
ten the corrosive ironies of the day. Lounging at 

XIX 


INTRODUCTION 








their case, they nonchalantly exchange anecdotes 
and develop paradoxes.” And it must be ad- 
mitted that the characters in Schnitzler’s plays, ex- 
cept in a few notable exceptions, do luxuriate in 
analysing uncommon states of the soul while they 
appear to be watching the vanishing smoke of 
their cigarettes. But this is inevitable; this is the 
Viennese heritage. Seeking to dissect, as I have 
said, every fine shade of their feelings, they drift 
from one illusion to another and, thrusting to 
pierce behind the material garment of things, they 
hurl their feeble ratiocinative “ Cui Bono?” to- 
ward the showman behind the wings. “A 
bower,” von Hoffmannsthal says further, ‘‘ takes 
the place of a scene and sunshine puts out the foot- 
lights. ‘Thus we stage-manage our plays. Ma- 
ture spirits, matured early in life, delicate and 
melancholy, we produce the comedy of our own 
souls, the changing life of the heart, glittering 
phrases for vile things, flattering causerie, multi- 
colored images, sentiments only half-born, epi- 
sodes, agonies —”’ 


In the province of the commercially disdained 
one act play, the darling of the mushroom little 
theatres, there can be no question that Schnitzler 
is today supreme. Since the death of Strindberg, 
with whom as a psychologist he might be profit- 
ably contrasted and John Millington Synge, 
whose classic aloofness it is quite futile to ex- 
pect him to approximate, there has risen no figure 
comparable to him in this long neglected art-form 
of the theatre. 

Xx 


INTRODUCTION 








The one act play, as we are familiar with it, 
may be said to undertake a suddenly glimpsed 
slice of life, a cross-section packed with emotional 
potentiality, a climactic and fateful episode in the 
life of a person or group of persons. ‘This epi- 
sode, skillfully selected by the playwright, reveals 
the causal past wherein the episode has fastened 
its roots and foreshadows something of the fu- 
ture coming directly out of the events en scéne. 
The one act play does not of necessity attain a 
satisfying emotional cadenza at the fall of the 
curtain, like a phrase of music: the interest and 
suspense of the audience is entrapped primarily 
by what takes place on the stage, and only second- 
arily and incidentally, by the train of events which 
we conjecture is bound to follow. This does not, 
of course, predispose against the immediate ac- 
tion’s serving as a dramatic springboard for the 
imaginative guess of the audience. In point of 
fact, a clever handling of this element of fore- 
shadowing will heighten considerably the dramatic 
effect. An audience likes to feel, so to speak, 
that it has its hand upon the author’s mind, 
whereas it is the playwright who is controlling and 
steering at will the mind of the audience. 
Schnitzler’s one act plays fulfill all the require- 
ments of their kind with a compressed art that is 
little short of perfection. 

The plays grouped under the title of ‘*‘ Comedy 
of Words,” here presented to the American reader 
for the first time, were published in 1915 and 
represent the most recent product from Schnitz- 
ler’s pen and though, as we think, they will 
scarcely enhance his reputation to any great ex- 

XXi 


INTRODUCTION 


ees 


tent, they do, nevertheless, continue in the tradi- 
tion of his best work. In the subsoil of ‘“‘ The 
Green Cockatoo,” 1898, ‘‘ Anatol,” 1893, “* Strag- 
glers at the Carnival,” 1901; in “ Literature,” 
1901, and “ His Helpmate,” 1898 (the latter two 
are included in the present volume), and in the 
“Comedy of Words” comprising ‘‘ The Hour 
of Recognition,” ‘“‘ The Big Scene” and “ The 
Festival of Bacchus,” lurk the germs of his larger, 
more discursive plays. The firm grasp of char- 
acter delineation exhibited in these one act plays 
is always trenchant, the wit and satire sparkling 
and, upon the whole, they are more closely and 
tightly knit, more reticent than his full-sized 
plays. In actual performance what this artistic 
reticence implies usually escapes all but the most 
finished actors. And it is precisely for this rea- 
son, rather than because, say, the producers 
lacked the necessary insight and penetrating sym- 
pathy, that the performance of “ Literature”’ at 
the Bandbox by the Washington Square Players 
of New York resulted in high treason to art, in 
sacrilege and absurd fiasco. Managers, as a rule, 
scout the idea of producing Schnitzler’s longer 
plays because of what appears to them as a lapse 
of architectonics, an absence of prescribed play 
structure, an effect of diffuseness and unconnected 
thought. But juxtaposed to a play by any of the 
best known naturalists, say, Hauptmann or Tol- 
stoi or Tchekov, it will immediately be seen that 
Schnitzler, besides being an artist with a sweep- 
ing ecstatic vision, is also an artificer of the first 
water. His artistic self-consciousness, however, 
has succeeded admirably in obliterating itself and 
XXxii 








INTRODUCTION 








has become, by an act of highest genius, transfig- 
ured into unconscious and naive beauty. 

Whatever appreciation of Schnitzler exists on 
this side of the Atlantic is due mainly to the fine 
clear-cut paraphrase of the dialogues of ‘ Ana- 
tol” by Mr. Granville Barker. Several years 
ago the Anatol cycle was produced in New York 
with Mr. John Barrymore in the title rdle. The 
performance was finished and, as I recall it, 
left little to be desired from many points of view; 
but a typical New York audience, slightly ele- 
vated, it may be, above the usual level of Broad- 
way, buttoned up after the performance the vague, 
self-satisfied and fatuous impression that Arthur 
Schnitzler, in his own intimate cendcle, must be 
a rather wicked person—witty and charming 
and adorable, owning something of the suavity 
and zest of a roué who inhabits brilliantly one 
of Oscar Wilde’s drawing-room scenes. Need- 
less to say, Anatol, irresistible though he him- 
self is, armored in his panoply of eternal self- 
suspicion and self-philosophy, confesses only an 
infinitesimal part of his creator, of the artist-to-be 
and his subsequent maturity born of a stupendous 
power that is at once overbearing and sheer: his 
wit, his rare humor, his almost uncanny knowl- 
edge of the all-too-human, his poetry, his travail- 
ing depth (in the sense that all philosophy is an 
agonized travailing). Schnitzler was twenty 
seven when he wrote “ Anatol.’ Since the con- 
ception of that immensely engaging spoiled child 
of almost every metropolis in the world, he has 
pushed on to profounder regions of thought and 
psychological analysis. 

XXiil 


INTRODUCTION 








The character of Anatol, about whom the 
cycle revolves, is worth dwelling on for the rea- 
son that it is the archetype of other studies ap- 
pearing later in various re-pencilled avatars 
throughout the longer plays. Anatol is an ex- 
quisite belonging to the modern jeunesse doré with 
a good smack of the self-psychologist in his 
make-up. As a physician of the feminine soul, 
a purveyor to the feminine heart, an amateur in 
the art of love, he runs pretty thoroughly the 
gamut of Viennese society. He starts with the 
slisses Mdadl whose habit is to vibrate between 
the virtuous-seeming domesticity and the gay 
abandon of the Prater. He ends—or to be 
exact —he never ends with the faithless wife. 
The old love, no matter how poignant and heart- 
wringing at one time, is always bartered for the 
new. With exemplary ironic finesse, his friend 
and confidant, Max, thimblerigs him out of the 
mesh of many a desperate situation, many a sinis- 
ter dilemma, many a dying amourette. Max, you 
see, is the brutal opposite of the butterfly Anatol. 
He is safe and probably arrives at his office in the 
city no later than ten in the morning; he treads 
ever the sane and sure path of eternal skepticism 
as regards women. Neither moral nor immoral 
but just master of himself, he denies to the weaker 
sex the usual benefit of the doubt. You cannot 
prove, Max might say, that they are faithful even 
if they protest with tears and smelling salts on 
your shoulder; nor can you argue that they have 
brains even though they may bewilder you with 
intricate and high-sounding talk. Anatol, on the 
other hand, is being continually and mercilessly 
XXIV 


INTRODUCTION » 








racked by what are in reality delicious misgivings, 
alternately believing and doubting. Max, you 
might say offhand, is a practical, level-headed fel- 
low and Anatol —a Toy Philosopher. Now a 
Toy Philosopher may be described, without the 
aid of a specimen of his dialectic, as a callow the- 
orist syllogizing about the world in general and 
about women in particular; one who toys with 
both, if you like, by way of experiment. As an 
inevitable consequence of his dilly-dallying with 
life and love, it is not to be wondered at that his 
hypotheses, as well as his conclusions, should prove 
amazingly absurd and befuddling. But the one 
unchangeable condition of these conclusions of 
Anatol’s is that they are at any moment subject to 
change. Who would dare to be absolute when it 
is a question of so variable a quantity as women? 
In the somewhat stolid person of Max, the 
eternally sound-minded, Anatol, as it were, finds 
a spar while floundering in the tub of his Toy 
Philosophy. Max is indeed hard put to it in his 
tireless exploits to temper the emotional inebriety 
of his flittering friend. 'Women— mystery? 
Pshaw! If women had the brains to think about 
men, how great a mystery then would men be to 
women? But Anatol, stone-deaf to reason how- 
ever wise and insistent, suffers one disillusion- 
ment after another and not only by virtue of his 
conquests (for a conquest is as good as a disillu- 
sionment), but also and overwhelmingly because 
of the sorry show he makes of himself while 
about it. Anatol emerges from the tangle of his 
experiences unchanged, unlessoned —the same! 
We need seek no further. The keynote to Ana- 
XXV 


INTRODUCTION 








tol’s character, I believe, is to be found right 
here: he is one of those unresting persons, hope- 
lessly temperamental, who lacks above all things 
the knack of turning the gleanings of his experi- 
ence into the grist of simple wisdom. Secretly, 
on the unwritten principle, no doubt, that all the 
world loves a charming rogue, we wish him all 
kinds of luck; but even so, we cannot help feeling 
that he will, when all is said and done, learn very 
little more of that self-created and intriguing para- 
dox: the genus Woman. To him, as to all those 
of his introspective clan, we may justly apply the 
aphorism of Francis Thompson: ‘“ Suspicion cre- 
ates its own cause; distrust begets reason for dis- 
trust.” 

Anatol, as I have previously intimated, is from 
the artistic as well as the chronological side, the 
point of departure for Schnitzler’s work. The 
immortal irony inherent in his mature, fully de- 
veloped style, and commented on so widely, is here 
exquisitely foreshadowed and foretold. If this 
irony is not exactly corrosive in the dialogues, still, 
such as it is, it testifies to a quality in the author 
which is characteristic of the great wielders of 
satire, from Cervantes to Anatole France — that 
quality, I mean, of being able to laugh at one’s 
own cherished beliefs, even at oneself. There is, 
moreover, a delightful piquancy about the cycle 
which, I suspect, is responsible for the enormous 
vogue ‘‘ Anatol”’ has received. But undoubtedly 
the highest expression of Schnitzler’s genius as a 
craftsman in the realm of the one act play will be 
found in the plays contained in the present volume 
and in the earlier pieces, ‘‘ Stragglers at the Car- 

XXVi 


INTRODUCTION : 








nival”’ (1901), and ‘“‘ The Green Cockatoo,” pub- 
lished in 1898. 

In ‘“‘ The Green Cockatoo ” the ironic touch of 
Schnitzler is most remarkably portrayed. For 
sheer subtlety and evasive deftness of handling, 
for artistry or artifice as well as art —the art, I 
mean, which perfectly coalesces theme and frame- 
work, “‘ The Green Cockatoo” is in its way un- 
surpassable in the history of the drama. Call it 
flawless technique, if you are so minded. But the 
term technique, so simple and nude to the bench- 
warmer of drama courses, is altogether inconclu- 
sive in the present application and calls for a much 
broader and more spiritual re-definition. I shall 
not attempt to define it here. Suffice it to say, 
that it partakes of the qualities of ecstasy and su- 
prasensual clairvoyance and is not to be achieved 
with the aid of Broadway scissors and pastepot, 
nor by diligently studying the literal diagrams of 
the schools. Ina word, it is the very quintessence 
of genius. Where there is high portentous mat- 
ter (and there can be no high portentous matter 
unless there is also personality), wherever this 
matter is organically welded with form that is 
consummately fitting, technique, so called, will 
automatically take care of itself. In ‘‘ The Green 
Cockatoo,” as in ‘‘ The Hour of Recognition ” 
and ‘* The Festival of Bacchus ”’ artifice vanishes 
before power. 

“The Big Scene ”’ is little more than a character 
etching, admirable though it be, and “ Literature ” 
is an exalted farce whose humor makes Laughter 
hold both his sides; ‘‘ His Helpmate ” is a quiet 
but keen study in disillusionment and “‘ Stragglers 

XXVil 


INTRODUCTION 





a 


at the Carnival” contains shattering elements of 
tragic contrast: false hope flickering up in the 
vaulted night of the soul, unconsciously grim hu- 
mor and finally unutterable world-weariness and 
despair, the like of which, if we would find it, we 
must seek in ‘“‘ Hamlet ”’ and the concluding scenes 
of “ Macbeth.” If Schnitzler were simply a satir- 
rst, like Anatole France, then ‘‘ The Green Cocka- 
too’ would emerge as the ironic chef d’ceuvre of a 
pastmaster of the weapons and instruments of 
irony. But since he is infinitely more than a satir- 
ist, he has given us plays like ‘“‘ His Helpmate,”’ 
“ Stragglers at the Carnival,” “ The Hour of Rec- 
ognition ’’ and “ The Festival of Bacchus,’ which 
surpass it in emotional intensity, in psychological 
interaction, in the portrayal of the clash of funda- 
mental human consciousness, or, which is perhaps 
nearer the truth, subconsciousness with subcon- 
sciousness; these plays are of a different mould. 
But as a dish relished with the sauce of wit and the 
curry of biting satire ‘‘ The Green Cockatoo ” has 
been unequalled of its kind. In this play the au- 
thor has used ingeniously, I had almost said 
greatly, the device of a play within a play. It is, 
however, when closely examined, no idle device in- 
tended merely to amuse or flip the jaded theatrical 
sense, for it voices by artistic implication the whole 
trend of Schnitzler’s reaction to life: 





“We play a part and wise is he who knows it.” 


The five plays contained in the present volume 
will undoubtedly commend themselves to those 
who care for the best in modern drama. The 

XXVIll 


INTRODUCTION 








American playwright will find it profitable to study 
them as models of character drawing, of dialogue, 
of the broad vision that forgets mediocrity. In 
their way, since Schnitzler is a pioneer in psychol- 
ogy, they are Baedeckers to human nature. The 
discerning reader, already familiar with Schnitz- 
ler’s work, will observe how much deeper he has 
penetrated and will enjoy these new adventures in 
the human soul. His debt to Freud, in this re- 
spect, is already too well known to dwell on. In 
passing, however, permit me to mention that in 
his ‘‘ Arthur Schnitzler als Psycholog’”’ Dr. Theo- 
dor Reik, a disciple of Freud, has attempted to 
gauge and appraise this debt. He has taken the 
plays, premised the situations as real, and then 
psycho-analysed the characters in the manner of 
the Austrian neurologist. Again in these one 
act plays the reader will find an artistic voicing 
of the philosophical point of view that reality, 
the familiar of the senses, grades indiscernibly 
into illusion and vice versa. Suppose we put it 
another way: In the cut and thrust of ordinary 
life, in the thronging press of experience and sen- 
sation, action and thought and memory — facul- 
ties by whose testimony we think we know the 
world about us and are, moreover, convinced that 
we are alive — it is practically impossible to sever 
what we think from what is. Life then is a 
dream-lit maze or only such stuff as dreams are 
made on. Sleep comes but at the end, for even in 
dreams the process of life and thought is going 
on. But even in the innermost region inhabited 
only by our dreams reside and float fragmentary 
XXiX 


INTRODUCTION 








drifts of reality, rumors of the waking world, dim 
and undefined. And this, concisely put, is the 
dominant theme hovering like an overtone above 
the scenes, tragic and rare and enthralling, of all 
of Schnitzler’s work. 

PIERRE LOVING. 


New York City, November, 1916. 


THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION 
A CoMEDY OF WorpDs 
PERSONS 


CArt ECGKOLD, IVD. 
CLARA, his wife. 
PROFESSOR RUDOLPH ORMIN. 


MaIp 1] 
SERVINGMAN [ at the Eckolds. 


[ScENE: Dining room in the home of Dr. 
Eckold, Vienna. A door in the rear conducts 
to an ante-room or vestibule; another pierced 
in the right wall opens to the waiting-room, still 
another on the left leads to the other living 
rooms. The furniture is comfortable but old- 
fashioned. 

Discovered, Dr. Carl Eckold, a man of, say 
45, with a dark brown square-cut beard, inclin- 
ing to baldness. He wears a pince-nez for 
reading purposes. Also, Clara, his wife, 40, 
still pretty. Both are seated at the table finish- 
ing their dessert. 

The servingman comes in with a card. | 


SERVINGMAN. The lady begs to be admitted at 
once, if possible. 
EcKOoLp [deliberately turning the card between 
his fingers}. My hours, as announced, start at 
I 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








three. It is scarcely half past two now. Ask 
the lady to be patient. Anybody else waiting? 

SERVINGMAN. Three patients already, sir. 

EckoLp. H’m! I shall take them in the or- 
der of their arrival. 

[Servingman goes off. The maid serves the 

coffee, which Clara pours into the cups. | 

EckoLp. Why, you've laid three covers, 
Clara. Have you forgotten that our Miss Bet- 
tina, or, to do her nibs justice, Mrs. Bettina Wor- 
mann, dines in Salzburg today? Perhaps in 
Zurich? Perhaps — Heaven only knows where? 

Crara. No. I haven't forgotten, Carl. 
The extra cover was laid for Ormin. 

Ecxoip. Ah, yes. Made his apologies over 
the telephone, has he? 

Ciara. No, nothing definite. Besides, I 
know he is coming to bid us good-bye. 

Ecxotp. Terribly busy, I suppose, with this 
long journey in front of him. Will you call me 
when he comes? I want to pay my respects in 
person. ([Rises, striding over to the right, turn- 
ing half-way.| Are you going out? 

Ciara. No, I’ve nothing particular on for to- 
night. Why do you ask? Anything you wish to 
consult me about? 

Ecxoitp. Nothing out of the ordinary. 
There’s no hurry at all. Well — [glances at the 
clock, making for the door, right. The serving- 
man enters with telegram and newspaper. FEckold 
steps toward him, taking the telegram. The serv- 
ingman places the newspaper on the table. | 

EcKoLp [opening the telegram]. From Bet- 
tina. 

2 


THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION 








CLARA [going up to him, eagerly.| Oh, al- 
ready? 

EckoLp. From Bettina and Hugo, of course. 

[ Clara reads over his shoulder. | 

Eckotp. From Innsbruck. 

Ciara. They didn’t squander a round minute. 
Piled into a cab directly after the wedding supper 
and whipped to the station. 

ECKOLD. Quite a sensible idea, that! 

CLARA [reading]. ‘‘ Tomorrow Zurich. Day 
after tomorrow we expect to have a word from 
you at Luzerne, Palace Hotel.” 

EcKxoip. “ A thousand regards.” 

Crara. The identical route we travelled 
twenty-two years ago. Only we weren't so hot- 
foot to reach Innsbruck. 

EcKoLp [without twitching a muscle of his 
face]. Modern tempo, I guess. And we didn’t 
stop at the Palace Hotel, either. 

CLARA. It wasn’t up then. 

EckoLp. Even if it had been — 

CraARA. It was glorious, all the same — with- 
out the Palace, I mean. 

Ecxo.tp. Ah, but Bettina’s struck better luck 
than you. 

CLARA. Now —[touching his arm gently. | 

ECKOLD [moving away from her. Alongside 
the table, nonchalantly fluttering the newspaper |. 
I don’t reproach myself in any way when I afirm 
that. <A paternal million, let me tell you, isn’t to 
be ground down with the heel of one’s foot. 
Especially when the stars fight in their courses for 
you, which really is the case with your son-in-law. 
[Glancing at the newspaper.| Here’s something 


3 


-COMEDIES OF WORDS 








about Ormin, by the way [reading] “ The regu- 
lar sanitation corps under the leadership of Ru- 
dolph Ormin, Royal and Imperial Professor, of 
the Austrian Red Cross, will leave Vienna this 
evening on the eight twenty express. At Trieste 
it will board the Austrian Lloyd liner Amphitrite, 
sailing for Japan, and thence will repair to the 
war zone.” [He holds out the newspaper to her, 
scrutinizing her face closely as she peruses the col- 
umn.| Not bad at all, that. ([Sits.] 

CLARA [still standing]. You ploughed through 
something of the sort once. 

EckoLp. Bosnia—? ‘There’s no compari- 
son — really. 

CLARA. But it was a kind of war, wasn't 
it? 

Eckoitp. Kind of? Not merely a “ kind of,” 
but a bona fide war, I assure you. You might 
have gathered that from my diary. [ let you read 
it then. Surely you remember? 

Ciara [laughing]. Certainly, I remember. 

EckoLp. From the steep mountain slopes they 
fired on us where we were huddled below. Lit- 
tle heed they gave to the Red Cross. Sanita- 
tion corps or no, be damned to you! [Changing 
his tone.] Ah, but it’s jolly good going through 
it with the brevet of a superior — like Ormin, for 
instance! At the time I was only a callow sur- 
geon. I had just taken my degree. Nowadays 
I am utterly unqualified for such an undertaking. 
It calls for more elasticity in a man, more ideal- 
ism, in a certain sense, more youth. 

CLARA. Ormin is two years older than you. 


4 


THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION 








And, moreover, it’s rumored his heart’s not per- 
fectly fit. 

Eckotp. But it’s not a question of years, not 
even of health. What keeps one in good fettle is 
success, recognition, fame. 

CxLaRA. Perhaps if you had adopted an aca- 
demic career — 

EckoLp. Oh, of course. The difference in 
the nature of our endowments, Ormin’s and mine, 
isn’t so big that you can notice it. It was due to 
other things. Of that I am sure. Over and 
above all things else, Ormin possesses innate gaiety 
of spirit. There’s the rub. The spiritual urge, 
as it were. Then you’ve got to give the man 
credit for some superficiality. That’s an attribute 
you must be born with. It’s not to be acquired, 
no matter how hard you try. 

CLARA. Somehow he never needed to drum up 
a practice. 

Ecxoitp. Neither didI. Years ago, when he 
and I were young physicians, financially he was 
no better off than I. No better off than I. 
What’s the good of paltering with the truth. 
Like mine in all respects, his lot was one of worri- 
ment and struggle. 

CrLaRA. Yes, but for himself alone. 

EckoLp. Of course, when he married his anx- 
ieties were increased. What do you expect? A 
good deal has to be discounted — always. Were 
he to die one of these days Mrs. Melanie would 
not be so wonderfully provided for. 

CxiarRA. Since she’s not legally divorced, she 
gets her allowance just the same. 


5 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








Ecxoip. Allowance! About two thousand 
crowns. And that, as you know, doesn’t go a 
great way with dear Melanie. She used to spend 
as much as that on gloves and hats alone. At 
least that was — . 

CLARA. Really, I think she was maligned 
more than she deserved. Society is horribly 
stony-hearted towards the wives of great men. 

EcKoLp. Great? Pshaw. You mean, fa- 
mous. Well, thank Heaven, you’re spared such 
treatment. Now—l[is about to go when Pro- 
fessor Ormin comes in. He is a clean-shaven 
man of about 50, with a haggard, sharply-chiselled 

ace. | 

/ ORMIN. How d’ye do. I trust sincerely you 
haven’t waited until now with the dinner. [Kisses 
the tips of Clara’s fingers and shakes hands with 
Eckold.] 

OrMIN. I’ve dined already, thank you. 

CLARA. You must take a cup of coffee — 

OrMIN. Thanks. Don’t let me put you out, 
though. [Clara rings and gives an order to the 
maid who has entered. | 

Eckotp. Delighted to see you once again be- 
fore you leave. This evening, eh? And then on 
the Amphitrite? 

OrMIN. Yes. 

EcKOLD. Here ’tis in the paper. Ah, but 
you’re going to have a fine passage. In June — 
by the by, when do you expect to be at the front — 
on duty, I mean. 

OrmIN. In four weeks. But I think it'll take 
us considerably longer to get to the actual war 
zone. 

6 


THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION 








EckxoLp. Who knows, old man, but all may 
be settled before you arrive. 

OrMIN. Settled? Why, it’s scarcely begun. 
And judging from all appearances, things will be 
rather long drawn out. [The maid brings the 
coffee and Clara pours it into the cup. The maid 
goes out. | 

EckoLp. Are you taking an assistant along? 

OrMIN. Yes, Marenzeller. Kleinert’s picked 
to take my place in the clinic. [Sipping his cof- 
fee.| Do you know who’s sailing with us? 
Guess. On the Amphitrite, too. Our good old 
friend, Floding. j 

Ecxoip. Floding? I suppose he’s aged a 
good deal. Grown virtuous, hashe? Not likely, 
I guess. Virtue as a rule is more elusive than 
age. 

Ciara. In what capacity is Floding going to 
Japan? | 

Ecxoip. In the capacity of correspondent — 

OrMIN. Yes, for the Rhenish News. So he 
writes me. 

CLARA. You keep in touch with him? 

OrmIN. Not very regularly. But since last 
summer, when we were accidentally thrown so 
much in each other’s company — after many years 
— I’ve already told you all about it. 

Ciara. Nowadays we never hear from him. 
_ yee hadn’t brought his respects from Helgo- 
and — 

Eckoip. What’s he going to write us for? 
It’s ten years now that he left Vienna. 

OrmMIN. He refers to you habitually as one of 
his closest friends. 


7 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








Eckoup. Friends? [Pause.] I doubt whether 
I really owned a friend. Perhaps — you. 

OrmIN. Oh, a good many. Possibly you 
make overstrict demands. 

EckoLp. Why make demands at all? Sel- 
dom, if ever, are any of them met. 

ORMIN [jestingly to Clara]. What’s come 
over your husband, eh? [Recollecting.| Oh, 
yes; his daughterkin. By God, I miss her, too. 
Have you had a line from her yet? No? It’s 
hardly likely so soon. 

CLARA. We received a telegram just this min- 
ute. 

Eckoip. From Innsbruck. . 

Ciara. Tomorrow they reach Zurich, day 
after tomorrow Luzerne. 

OrRMIN. And in the course of three weeks, I 
suppose, you will welcome her back home. 

Ciara. Unfortunately, no. After the honey- 
moon they plan to move to Berlin. 

OrMIN. Indeed. Is Wormann needed that 
bad in Berlin? 

EckoLp. Yes, now that his predecessor has 
oe appointed Professor Extraordinary to Bres- 
au — 

ORMIN. Quite so. Oh, he’ll carve out a rip- 
ping career for himself, your son-in-law will. 
With twenty-eight assistants at the Physiological 
Institute — and highly deserving of it all, let me 
add. 

Ciara. I see no reason why it couldn’t be over 
here just as well. 

OrmIn. After all, the distance between Ber- 
lin and Vienna isn’t so great. 

8 


THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION 








Ciara. Just fancy! Day before yesterday 
she sat here with us. For seventeen years she sat 
in the self-same place. [Pause.] Dear me! 
All these sentimental after-thoughts, I’m afraid, 
won’t help a bit. But the wrench is — so deep! 

OrRMIN. I never thought you’d take it to heart 
this way. All fathers and mothers must steel 
themselves against this sort of thing. 

Ciara. Of what use is your steeling yourself 
against it? 

Eckxoitp. Yes, of what use? It’s infinitely 
better to have no children at all. 

See [almost frightened]. What a thing to 
say! 

EcKOLp [impenetrably]. I say it again. 

ORMIN [tactfully]. Well—[Pause]. Now 
what else did I want to tell you? Oh, yes. One 
of the nurses of the Red Cross accompanying my 
expedition is — don’t start! — Madame Melanie 
Ormin. 

Ciara. Ah! 

EckKoLp. Your wife? 

OrMIN. My — wife that was, yes. 

EcKkoip. Old man, sure as fate, you're go- 
ing to come back with all your differences patched 
up. 
OrMIN. Not a bit of it. 

Ciara. Don’t forget to remember me to Me- 
lanie, when you see her. 

OrMIN. You are kindly disposed to her, aren’t 
you? 

CLarRA. We always got along very nicely to- 
gether. You know that. 

Eckotp. Please remember me, too. And 


2 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








don’t omit Floding, either. You can tell him from 
me it’s a symptom of ungratefulness not to let 
himself be heard from, especially after such a bully 
friendship as he claims existed between us. 

OrMIN. You demand, my dear Carl, more 
than you give. Why, you’ve chucked him on your 
own account. What do you expect? 

CLARA. But, really, he liked him. 

Ecxoip. Liked him? You exaggerate. He 
interested me. Quite an amusing cut-up, he was. 
Wicked and sentimental. 

Ormin. Not such an odd combination, by a 
long shot. That is, as far as wags who are nig- 
gardly endowed go. 

Eckoitp. Niggardly endowed? You mean 
his halt foot. Ah, but don’t you see that’s why he 
was vouchsafed such beautiful blue eyes. 

OrmMIN. It’s hardly the most striking paradox 
in his make-up. What’s worse, is the fact that he 
possesses a poetical soul, coupled with not an 
ounce of poetic talent. That kind of thing spells 
the ruin of a man. 

Ciara. I remember several lovely poems he 
wrote once. 

OrmIN. Up to a certain age nobody objects 
strenuously to that. But, you see, he persists in 
turning them out still. Last summer — Just to 
cite an instance — he recited several to me. 

CLARA. Well? 

OrMIN. The surf was simply deafening. I 
must beg to be excused from any criticism. [En- 
ter servingman with a card. | 

Eckotp [taking the card]. Excuse me. 
Praxis aurea, you know. Don’t go until I return. 

10 


THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION 








ORMIN. Can’t promise that I’ll stay that long, 
Carl. I’ve got to attend to several things before 
my departure. 

EcKoLp. Won’t you keep my wife company 
for a quarter of an hour or so? Call me when 
you’re going. Now don’t take yourself off unciv- 
illy. Well, auf wiedersehen. [Goes out right. ] 

CLARA [breaking in suddenly]. This is nice, 
Melanie’s sailing with you that way! 

OrMIN. Not with me. It just happens that 
she’s a member of the party. 

CLaRA. Well, if it weren’t for you the idea 
would never have occurred to her. 

OrMIN: It’s idle to conjecture about that. 
It’s bewildering all the things she’s put her hand 
to, and carried through, too, since we separated. 

CLARA. Has she been living in Vienna re- 
cently? 

OrMIN. Yes, and quite an age for her. Just 
fancy only three months ago she returned from 
Madeira, where I understood she kept a foreign 
pension. 

CLARA. I was under the impression she had 
tried her luck in America. 

ORMIN. Quite an old story, that. Do you 
know that she was on the stage over there? 
Played in English, mind you. It came to my ears 
only the other day. She seems to have been tre- 
mendously versatile in her way. 

CLARA. Quite a remarkable creature, I must 
say. Perhaps you will be happy with her yet. 

Ormin. I — 

CraraA. Fifteen years ago you may have been 
unfit for married life. 

ET 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








OrMIN. On the contrary, I was always fit. 
Only I didn’t happen to meet the right woman. 
[Simply.] I made her acquaintance — several 
years too late. 

Ciara [smiling]. You'd have tired of the 
right woman just as you did of Melanie. 

OrMIN. Why do you think so? I did not 
tire of Melanie. That’s a mistaken notion of 
yours. We just — Melanie and I — after a cer- 
tain period took to making separate trips. Objec- 
tively, I know, it has the appearance of tiring of 
one another. But it wasn’t my fault. I am very 
strong for marital fidelity. At least I am sure of 
this much: I was destined to the domestic sphere. 
More so than Carl, for instance. 

Ciara. More so than Carl — you? 

OrMIN. Certainly. In him, lurking deep 
within, there broods a suggestion of the out-and- 
out undomestic creature. Yes, the genius of the 
philanderer. 

Ciara [smiling]. In Carl? 

OrMIN. Yes, in your husband, the practicing 
physician, whose consultation hours are between 
three and four. 

Crara [shaking her head incredulously]. Do 
you call yourself a student of human nature? 

OrMIN. Knowledge of human nature is an 
assumption for the most part. Not always accu- 
rate nor pleasant, either. But, quite seriously, we 
have lived, both of us —he and I — at deepest 
odds with our innermost selves. For I have 
yearned all my life long for repose, spiritual re- 
pose. Had I achieved it, I dare say, I'd have 
made a bigger man of myself. 

12 


THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION 








CLARA. You ought to be content. 

OrMIN. Content? Are you thinking of what 
the world calls my career? People look up to me 
as a physician, as a professor, even —as if all that 
mattered the least bit! Under more favorable 
circumstances than I have been heir to, I might 
have accomplished greater things. 

Ciara. Under more favorable —? 

ORMIN. Well, suppose we put it this way: 
In the peaceful atmosphere of a veritable home. 
Please don’t think me mawkish. I have always 
craved for that sort of thing, but somehow it was 
appointed far otherwise. 

Ciara. Ah, but I can read a purpose in the 
fact that it was appointed otherwise. 

ORMIN. A purpose? I doubt it, Clara. I 
doubt it because I know exactly where, under more 
auspicious circumstances, I might have found the 
repose I sought in vain. [Ju a more ardent, but 
a quite simple tone of voice.}| We both know 
only too well, Clara, you and I. 

Ciara [gently shaking her head]. What a 
mad notion of yours! 

ORMIN. Before saying good-bye, I thought I 
might be permitted to call it to mind. 

CLARA. But not to utter it. 

OrMIN [earnestly but not heavily]. When you 
feel as I do, that you have never uttered the right 
words, and that the occasion will not present itself 
soon again — 

Ciara [smiling, but averting her gaze]. I 
hope, Ormin, you entertain no sinister presenti- 
ments. 

ORMIN. Presentiments? Up to the present 


13 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








I’ve not gone far afield when I weighed probabil. 
ities strictly in the balance. 

Ciara. But I have no presentiments what- 
ever. And I feel, in fact I know — nothing will 
happen to you. 

OrMIN. I’m not afraid. Bear in mind: no- 
body forced me to plunge headlong into the war 
and plague regions. The sealed purposes of 
Providence, however, are made more apparent to 
a man of my stripe from year to year. 

CLARA. You are still young. 

OrMIN. I? Ah, but you can say that more 
truthfully of Carl than of me. 

CLARA. Of course you can say it of Carl too. 

OrMIN. He has preserved himself better than 
I. His face is just as youthful as when he was an 
undergraduate. All around, he’s had better luck 
than I. 

CLARA [smiling]. In spite of his philandering 
instinct ? 

ORMIN [continuing earnestly]. I daresay in 
his profession too. 

CiLaRA. Surely you don’t envy him that, do 
your 

OrmMIN. Why not? Is my calling on a higher 
plane? Sometimes an uncanny feeling seizes me 
when I am called to an unknown family and in- 
troduced — not to a human being, but to an ail- 
ing stomach. Eckold at least gets to know his pa- 
tients. 

Ciara. Nothing enviable in that — 

OrRMIN [interrupting]. Yes, Clara, the lot of 
a consulting physician has quite a peculiar charm. 
Especially when, as in Carl’s case, you enjoy a 


14 


THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION 








good measure of the normal milk of human kind- 
ness. 

Ciara. Do you consider Carl a kind man? 

OrRMIN. H’m! That’s a posing question. 
Kind? Of course, he is kind. Every one of us 
is that, more or less. But kindly—? I don’t 
know whether you follow me. True kindness or 
goodness is a rare and noble quality. I think one 
may even commit crimes in goodness, one may 
even sin — 

Ciara. Good people would never think of do- 
ing that. 

ORMIN. You are quite right. Good people, 
at their best, never transcend petty meannesses. 

CLARA [laughing]. ‘That — why, that might 
have been said by Floding. 

OrMIN. You think so? Then, if you don’t 
mind, I prefer to take it back. 

CLARA [somewhat taken aback]. Our old 
friend, it appears, has not succeeded in winning 
your goodwill. | 

OrMIN. Last summer we were thrown to- 
gether every single day. And in vacations people 
betray themselves more than ordinarily. 

CrarRA. Perhaps it was just a game of his to 
appear other than he is. It’s like Floding. If 
you saw him in his true likeness, then he must have 
altered a good deal. 

OrmIN. A man doesn’t alter, Clara. He 
may disguise himself, he may dazzle others — at 
times himself. But in the deepest recesses of his 
soul he is unalterably the same. 

Ciara. If one only knew where the deepest 
recesses of the soul are situated. 


i) 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








ORMIN. There youhaveit. Exactly. That’s 
why we are always the same. But I might hazard 
a guess, they are probably situated where our sub- 
conscious wishes slumber or give the appearance 
of slumbering. 

CraRA. In the last analysis, Ormin, nothing 
matters — nothing but the deed we have accom- 
plished; that which we have undergone in life, not 
that which we have desired or yearned for. 

ORMIN. Quite so, Clara. And we can know 
mighty little about a person as long as his real fea- 
tures are screened behind the mist of his so-called 
daily affairs. 

CLARA [smiling]. And you would have me be- 
lieve that your gaze pierces this mist? 

OrMIN [earnestly]. Sometimes. And by vir- 
tue of this penetration, for instance, the adven- 
titious circumstance that you happen to go through 
life in the guise of the wife of my old chum, Carl 
Eckold, hasn’t blinded me to the truth, namely, 
deep, deep within, Clara, you possess the soul of 
one who dares all for love. 

CLARA [growing pale]. One who dares all 
for love! [Smiling.]| You flatter me exceed- 
ingly. I love Carl, quite naturally. I have al- 
ways loved him. But beyond that there’s nothing 
extraordinary about it. 

OrMIN [earnestly]. You know very well 
that’s not what I was driving at. 

CLARA [with equal seriousness]. I have never 
coveted any other lot. Never. I think I may 
be permitted to say of myself, with justice, that 
I have adorned, as far as lay in my power, the 
busy and preoccupied life of one who was dearer 

16 


THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION 








to me than anything else in the world. It wasn’t 
at all times an easy task. But, thank Heaven, I 
recognized it as my mission. 

OrMIN. Yes. I can well believe that. For 
Carl had need of you. 

Ciara. AsI had need of him. 

ORMIN. Is this true, Clara? Were you al- 
ways convinced that Carl Eckold, and no one else, 
constituted the meaning and end of your life? 

CiarA [tartly]. Heand Bettina. Yes, if you 
wish to put it that way; the meaning and the end. 

OrMIN. I beg pardon, then. 

CLARA. Quite unnecessary, I assure you. 

ORMIN. Today, you see, I don’t care to play 
cocksure. [can’t say: Well, until tomorrow or 
after tomorrow, dear lady. 

CLARA [laughing]. Why not six months 
hence, then? 

ORMIN [as gently as possible]. Let us hope 
so. [He starts to go, but hesitates at a move- 
ment of hers.| Oh, please don’t break in on Carl. 
We’ve said good-bye already. And, with all due 
respect for him, the latest impression I wish to 
leave with you—L[interrupts himself. Simply.] 
Good-bye, Clara. 

CLARA. Good-bye. [They meet at the door. 
He clasps her hand.] 

CLARA. Ormin! 

OrMIN. Clara! 

Ciara. You wear an air of having omitted 
something — through oversight. 

CEES [waveringly]. Omitted? Who has 
not: 

CLARA. In this connection, Ormin, let me al- 


17 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








lay your apprehensions before you go, at least as 
regards myself — I pledge my word, dear friend, 
you have no cause to revile yourself for anything. 

OrMIN. I can’t quite make out — 

Ciara. Assuming that way back —ten years 
ago, is it not? — you had proved more tumultuous 
or more skillful in your maneuvering, well, you’d 
never have corralled me into your collection. 

OrmMIN. H’m. Really, I don’t see why you 
try by this meticulous choice of words — 

CxLarA. Oh, I don’t doubt, I’d have turned 
out a rare specimen. No. But it could never 
have been. Quite otherwise was it decreed. I 
don’t mind telling you: I loved you. 

OrMIN [after a brief pause}. Oh! Oh! 
What a wretched simpleton I was! 

Ciara [laughing low]. You do yourself rank 
injustice. It didn’t depend on you altogether. 
Had I loved you less than I did, I’d have flung 
myself into your arms — perhaps. But you were 
more to me than a mere lover. You had sud- 
denly taken the shape of my destiny. For this 
reason it could never have come to pass. And 
you were not only my destiny — 

OrMIN. What did it matter? I tell you, hap- 
piness would have been ours, Clara. How many 
people can say that? Happiness! Yours and 
mine. 

CiaRA. For six months going, maybe a year. 
And even in that brief time it would not have been 
vouchsafed to us unmixed. 

OrMIN. We might have purified it. Drained 
off the dross, sooner or later. 

CLARA. Never. 

18 


THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION 








OrMIN. Bettina? 

Ciara. Not for Bettina’s sake alone. 

OrMIN. For him? What was he to you — 
then? 

CLARA. What was he to me? What he has 
always been. What he has remained to this day 
—to this very day. I didn’t realize so clearly as 
at that moment that my proper place was here — 
that I belonged utterly to him. Never till that 
moment, Ormin. 

OrMIN. Why just that moment? 

CLARA. Never before was I so sure of myself. 
[ Pause. ] 

ORMIN. Forgive me, but, if my memory 
doesn’t deceive me, your relations with Carl, at 
that time, left much to be desired. [Clara gazes 
at him astonished.| Oh, a blind man would have 
noticed that. There’s no more transparent stuff 
than that which matrimony is made of. At a 
pinch the individual can disguise himself, but in 
the sphere of human relationships masquerade i is 
impossible. 

CLARA [after a brief hesitation]. We were 
estranged at the time, if that’s what you’re aim- 
ing at. I won’t attempt to dissemble. But de- 
spite that, indeed, for that very reason —[inter- 
rupting herself, then more ardently.| You will 
never understand! You've never conceived what 
marriage means — what marriage under certain 
circumstances may grow to mean. You’ve no 
idea of a year-in, year-out pull together — and 
ours was a long pull together! What links are 
wrought, stronger than anything else which pas- 
sion can forge between one man and one woman! 


19 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








Notwithstanding all the tugging and gnawing, the 
link holds firm. The couple belong to one an- 
other beyond recall. And one feels this all the 
more keenly — 

OrMIN. When one chafes burningly to part. 

CrarA. Do you appreciate the truth of your 
words? In the midst of black distrust and pangs, 
the two people belong to one another just the same 
—and later on, more irrevocably, more inescap- 
ably by reason of their mutual devotion and ten- 
derness. I hadn’t the courage to leave him. 
Then less than ever. Do you follow me now? 
[with a soft smile]. All your overtures, as you 
see, would have fallen short. And so, when all’s 
said, you’ve no grounds to reproach yourself. 

OrMIN. Whether I follow you or not — 
what’s the odds today? But that you should tell 
it to me now — 

CraRA [without looking at him]. I had to, 
Ormin, sooner or later. 

OrMIN [very softly]. You seem to be in 
doubt whether we shall meet again — here or else- 
where. 

CLARA [tumultuously]. Please don’t carry 
away a spurious image of me — 

OrMIN. Into eternity. 

CLARA. Into the far-away. 

OrMIN. It makes you happy thinking I shall 
carry into the far-away the image of a saint, rather 
than that of a woman — 

Ciara. I don’t pretend to be a saint. That 
description fits me much less than the other. 

OrmIN. Let’s not attach too much weight to 
mere words. 

20 


THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION 








CLARA. For my part you may attach to them 
whatever weight you like. I come equally short 
of sainthood as I do of the passion of the woman 
who dares all for love. Believe me, I am a mere 
woman, like hundreds and thousands of other 
women. Perhaps no worse, but certainly no bet- 
ter: 

OrMIN. That sounds as if —[approaching 
her.| Is there yet another secret, Clara? 

Ciara. None whatever for you, Ormin, in 
this hour. 

ORMIN. None—? 

CLARA. None. 

OrMIN. Do I follow you rightly, Clara? 

Ciara. Certainly. 

OrRMIN. Still it’s a secret —[ pause. | 

Crara. Aname—? Does that signify? 

OrMIN. I am not inquisitive. 

Ciara. Life is full of strange coincidences, 
Ormin. Tomorrow at this hour you will be stroll- 
ing up and down the deck of the Amphitrite in 
his company — 

OrMIN. In his—? What's that you say? 
In his — why, it’s — 

GEARAGS. .) es: 

OrMIN. If that is so, then there was no chance 
of its ever turning into destiny for you. 

Ciara. Why do you ask? ([Glancing mean- 
ingly about the room.| Here is your answer. 

OrMIN. I mean a chance that you could not 
possibly foresee. 

CLARA. Perhaps there was none. 

ORMIN. You will never convince me, Clara, 
that you plunged cold-bloodedly into an affair of 

21 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








this ilk. There must be some reason why it was 
just he — 

CLARA. Hurt vanity! It’s just like a man to 
seek an explanation of a commonplace affair of this 
sort, if he happens not to have been the — 

OrMIN. Lucky fellow. 

Ciara. The lucky fellow? 

ORMIN. You must have loved him? 

Ciara. I don’t mean to deny it. 

OrMIN. More than you loved me? 

‘CLARA [laughing involuntarily]. Less than 
you. 

OrMIN. And yet, will you say, that he never 
could have been your destiny? He too might 
have been that. It would have been beyond your 
strength to resist if he had clung to you, if he had 
not released you, if he had claimed what was his 
due — 

Ciara. Due? He claimed no more than I 
was ready to grant him. Life had not pampered 
him like some of the others. 

OrmMIN [softly, to himself]. Like some of the 
others. 

Ciara. He was always lonesome — from 
childhood. He never knew the quiet of a father’s 
house. 

OrmIN. And, that being the case, you could 
pose as something of a sister and mother — 

CLARA. We were lovers. 

OrMIN [still simply]. And you were the first 
heavenly ray to penetrate a lugubrious existence. 

CLARA. I was. 

OrMIN. Well, I must say, you had good rea- 
son to nourish the delusion. 

22 


THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION 





= 


Ciara. That’s what I was to him. Per- 
haps I was more than mere happiness in his life. 
I don’t know the kind of man life has made of 
him today. It cannot have offered him all that 
he hoped for, all that perhaps he sought. But I 
know the man he was then. You, Ormin, did not 
know him. No. In fact, nobody knew him. 
Who troubled to peer into that cynical and solitary 
soul? I alone did. That is why I, of all peo- 
ple, can mean anything to him. And at the time 
I was the whole world to him — and without jeop- 
ardizing the calm of a third person concerned. 

OrMIN. After all, it was an escapade. 

CLaRA. Escapade? 

Ormin. An affair. Fortunately, it came at a 
time when you were ripe for it. 

Ciara [shaking her head]. I foresaw it. 
[Ormin gazes quizzically into her face.) You 
make out my real features behind the mist. You 
discern them all. Everything is as you have said. 
Behind the mist of sensations and impressions is 
limned the true image of what I am in my deepest 
self. [After alight sob.] I shouldn’t have told 
you, Ormin. 

ORMIN. Do you regret, Clara? I am grate- 
fulto you. It is so beautiful, so splendid that you 
—that both of us in this hour should have been 
able to speak out at last. 

CLaRA. Are we quite sure —? 

OrmMIN. Clara! 

CLaRA. Well, perhaps you are right. If it 
were only a question of words! 

OrMIN. We will forget the words. Nothing 
depends onthem. They are only — 


23 





COMEDIES OF WORDS 








[Eckold comes in from the right. | 

Ecxo.tp. Eh, still here? Good! 

Ciara. _ I was just about to call you. 

OrMIN [ready to leave]. Dear chap — 

Ecxoip. Thanks awfully for waiting. 

ORMIN. I must say goodbye now. 

Eckoitp. No use keeping you any longer. 
Once more, bon voyage — 

[They shake hands.| Don’t you know, Ormin 
—pno sense in hiding it from you at this stage — 
I sort of envy you. 

OrMIN. You do? Well, why not come 
along? Give up your practice for a few months 
and join us. 

Eckotp. What would I do? Surgery’s not 
in my line. 

OrMIN. That makes no bones. I guess we 
can handle the epidemic well enough. No red 
herring there for you, is there? 

EckoLp. Going’s out of the question, even if 
it tempted me. I’m the sort of person who never 
gets beyond the wishing stage. 

OrRMIN [to Clara]. Isn’t he a little unjust to 
himself ? 

CLARA. That’s what I keep telling him some- 
times. 

Ecxotp. Well [pause]— good luck. Cure 
them by the thousands. And, mind you, come 
back whole yourself. 

OrmIN. I hope for the best. Well, adieu. 
Think of me sometimes. Auf  wiedersehen, 
Clara. [He extends his hand and goes.\ Si- 
lence.| [Eckold glances at the clock and rings. 
Servingman enters. | 

24 


THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION 








EcKOLp. Has anyone else come in since? 

SERVINGMAN. No, sir. 

EcKoLp. Cab gone off yet? 

SERVINGMAN [going to window]. Not yet, sir. 
[ Exit. ] 

CLARA. It’s only half-past five. [She goes to 
the window. Eckold seats himself and takes the 
newspaper. | 

CLARA [turning toward him]. You had some- 
thing to say to me. 

Ecxko.p. It will wait till tomorrow. 

CLaRA. About Bettina, isn’t it? Family in- 
heritance? Any difficulties? You were to the no- 
tary’s today. 

Ecxotp. Yes. The affair of the inheritance 
is going very smoothly. Ina week or two every- 
thing will be adjusted. In any case, Bettina won’t 
stick at a trifle. But—I wanted to ask you; you 
long for her very much, don’t you? 

CLARA. And you? 

ECKOLD. Goes without saying. But I—I 
have my profession. You, I daresay, will find it 
harder getting used to her being away. 

CLARA. I was prepared for it. 

Eckoip. Even so. Your whole life, at least 
during the past year, was wrapped up in Bettina. 
And you will feel an empty gap now. 

CxLaRA [forcing a smile]. Oh, but there are 
heaps of things to distract one. 

EckoLp [staring straight ahead]. At all 
events. If you care to go over to Berlin — don’t 
trouble about me. Go. [Clara gazes at him 
astonished. | < 

EckoLp. I won’t object at all. Less so, con- 


25 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








sidering that Bettina is no longer with us, and 
there is no further need of our living together now. 

CLARA. You amaze me. 

EckoLp. What amazes you? 

CLARA [portraying growing astonishment]. 
You want to— you mean I should go away to 
Berlin? 

Ecxoip. Merely a suggestion. Of course, 
we will have to canvass the details. But all things 
considered, I believe — 

Ciara. What can this mean? What sudden 
idea is this? 

Eckoip. Sudden? It only looks that way to 
you. Until now I didn’t mention it. The time 
wasn’t ripe for it. I like to talk about things only 
when they have become, in a measure, realizable. 
But let me assure you it’s an old notion of mine 
that after Bettina’s marriage it might be a good 
thing to give up living together. 

Ciara. Living to — 

EcKoLp. Yes. Quite an old notion — a cher- 
ished notion, I might say. Let me see; I can tell 
you exactly how old it is — even to the very day 
it first struck me. It’s ten years now. Last May 
it was ten years toa day. Do you follow me? 

[He stands directly opposite her. They eye 

each other closely. Pause. | 

CLARA. You mean that for ten whole years 
you kept silent? 

Eckxotp. Yes. For ten whole years. But 
I’m not making a bid for your admiration. One 
must only be certain about what one wants. And 
I was certain. To trouble the outward calm of 
our existence, to bring about a deep-rooted re- 

26 


THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION 








vulsion of our life-relationship, while our daugh- 
ter was still living under the roof of her parents 
would have been highly impractical, not to say im- 
moral. And it would be just as immoral if we 
continued living together in our old way now that 
Bettina’s gone. 

CiarA. You kept silent ten whole years? 

Ecxoip. I knew to-day had to come. In- 
deed, I lived in anticipation of it. 

CLARA. Ten years you have waited for to- 
day? I can’t bring myself to believe it. I credit 
pe ma with such self-control, least of all you, 

arl. 

EckoLtp. You have always underrated me. 
That I know. Both of you have underrated me. 
[ Pause. ] 

CiaRA. Why didn’t you send me away then? 

Ecxotp. With equal right I might ask: 
Why didn’t you go away of your own accord? 

Ciara. I can answer that very easily. Be- 
cause I held this to be my home. Because this was 
my home, no matter what had happened. 

Ecxoitp. That view has its advantages, no 
doubt, especially its extraordinary convenience. 

Ciara. It was your view too. 

Ecxorp. Oh— 

CLARA. Yes, it was. Otherwise what’s to 
have prevented your showing me the door? It 
would have been only right, considering the opin- 
ion you held of me. What prevented you at the 
time, I haven’t the slightest doubt, was the feeling 
that at bottom our relations were still the same. 

Eckoip. Ah! 


27 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








Ciara. No act of mine could have wrought a 
complete change. 

EckoLp. I don’t quite grasp your — 

CLARA. We were too far apart, as it was. 
That was the point. And what happened then 
had very little to do with our estrangement. 

Eckoip. Estrangement? ‘To what period do 
you allude? What do you call estrangement? 

CLARA. Slipped your memory, has it? That 
which made everything else sufferable? 

Ecxoip. Ah, yes, I know what you mean. 
You refer to the most dismal period of my life, 
when I was burdened down with cares and strug- 
gles; when [ had finally to relinquish my academic 
and scientific dreams. J was doomed then — not 
because I lacked the necessary qualifications — I 
was doomed to remain a hack in my calling, in- 
stead of achieving what came as a windfall to 
others. I grant you, I was very ill-tempered. 
But I can picture the type of woman who would, 
at such a pass, have stood stoutly by the side of 
the man and cheered him and compensated him 
for all the meannesses he had to encounter in the 
world of daily affairs. You, however, attempted 
to make of my melancholy a kind of fault. And 
this estrangement — convenient word — was noth- 
ing more than a welcome refuge whereby you could 
seek your happiness elsewhere. 

CLARA. You're not fair to me, Carl. I tried 
my very best at the time to lift you above your 
disillusions and trying experiences. But I wasn’t 
strong enough for the task. Perhaps I tired too 
quickly. But it never for a moment occurred to 
me to blame you for your unfortunate tempera- 

28 


THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION 








ment, as you charge. That this estrangement 
came about, was nobody’s fault, yours no more 
than mine. It may be that human relations are 
subject to the same ailments as human beings. 
Surely you feel the truth of this. And so, all 
along you must have known that the obvious fact 
itself — the betrayal, as it used to be called, has 
very little significance outside of this. Other- 
wise, you would not have put up with it as you 
did. 

EckoLp. You think so? I see that I owe 
you an explanation as to how I could and did put 
up with it. To begin with, I was forewarned. 
I had the good sense to perceive destiny draw near. 
One can always do that. Some people shut their 
eyes tightly when it approaches. I refused to do 
so. And in this way I was clever enough to an- 
ticipate you. Do you follow me? Fling my van- 
ity the dole. I didn’t wait until the minute 
when your destiny and mine were consummated. 
I beheld it approaching. It was inevitable. And 
thus I prepared for it. It’s surprising that you did 
not once suspect me. How little you must have 
cared forme! And I made no secret of it at all. 
Why he, your lover, knew all about it. Didn’t he 
tell you? Odd! Perhaps it’s slipped your mem- 
ory. Well, it makes no difference. Destiny was 
fairly merciful, especially since I had all my plans 
worked out for the future. 

Ciara [in a quiet voice]. It would have been 
more delicate to have shown me the door. 

EcKkoLtp. And more delicate of you to have 
gone away at the right time. Such matters are 


29 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








never very delicate. It wouldn’t have been prac- 
tical to have parted then. 

CLARA. Surely you don’t believe that? 

“ EckoLp. Why not? Would my decision ap- 
pear more conscionable, do you think, if I rolled 
my eyes, lifted my hand to strike you and stormed 
about like a madman? I might have done it ten 
years ago, had I beena fool. You can’t expect it 
today. 

Ciara. There’s no one here to witness the 
scene, Carl—no one. You will please consider 
me as little importunate as I consider you a — 

Eckoitp. A what? 

Ciara. A comedian who simply won’t have 
his big scene ruined. Well, let this suffice. You 
wanted your triumph. You have it. And let 
it content you. As you may imagine I shall try 
to be with Bettina as often as possible. ‘That's 
my own wish. But of what use is all the rest? 
Why sever our relationship today? Why? Since 
we know that nothing of the sort is apt to hap- 
pen again, there’s nothing I can see which would 
justify such a belated punishment and revenge. 
We can still go on being what we have been to one 
another in these latter years. ‘Throughout all 
these years, thank heaven, you haven't always 
played comedy parts. It’s beyond human endur- 
ance. You would have forgiven me, at heart, 
long ago, even if you did not forgive yourself. 
Oh, before, a long time before we came to be noth- 
ing but good friends — 

EcKoLp. Good friends? Mere words! Nat- 
urally there’s this thing and that to talk about 
when one is living together under the same roof, 


30 


THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION 








especially because of the many common interests. 
Above all, when there is a child. If you care to 
call such a bond friendship, I’m sure I have no ob- 
jection. For my own part, however, I always 
held my life to be apart from yours, and I have 
lived in anticipation of this hour. 

CLARA. But only since we became nothing 
more than house companions. Once it was dif- 
ferent. 

Ecxko.p. It was never different. 

CLARA. It was different! Recollect. After 
the dark hour of estrangement, of lies, if you will, 
there came another, a better time when we found 
each other again. 

EckoLp. We? Found one another —? 

CrarA. We both realized what we had suf- 
fered without unlocking our lips. And many 
wounds were healed. Everything, in fact. Yes. 
Try to recall. We were happy again as in the 
past, happier than we had ever been. You could 
never glean that from your intercourse with the 
world. Call to mind our wonderful trip — soon 
after. And the glorious days in Rome, in Naples. 
You threw off your comedy part. Let everything 
else crumble. But when we were again recon- 
ciled after our — respective affairs and we had 
learned anew what we meant to each other — that 
was no lie, no self-deception! Only make an ef- 
fort to recall. It’s a little hard to speak of it to- 
day. But you know and I know that at no time 
was Isoutterly yours. Never, even in our earliest 
years of married life, was I so completely your 
ideal as then when we found each other again. 

EcKkoLp. Nonsense! 


31 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








Ciara. It can’t be — 

EckoLp. It is. You were neither my wife, 
nor my ideal — much less than later, for instance, 
you were my friend. You couldn’t be that to me 
again. 

CEARA. Carl! 

EckoLp. Yes, I recall. It possesses its own 
peculiar allurement, the time you speak of. But 
you were not my ideal. At the very best — 

CLARA [passionately]. Don’t say what’s ut- 
terly beyond cure! 

EckoLp. Why should there be a cure? You 
will always be the same to me. 

CrarA. Carl! If this be true — 

EcKoLp. _ It is true! 

CLARA. You should have told me this before 
you took me back. You had the right, it may 
be, to drive me away, even to kill me, if you 
wished. But the right to conceal the punishment 
you had meted out to me was not yours— You 
have deceived me more nefariously and a thou- 
sandfold more cowardly than I have deceived you. 
You have demeaned me lower than one human 
being has a right to demean another human be- 
ing! 

Eckoip [triumphing|]. Do you feel that? 
Does it cut you to the heart? Ah, that’s as it 
should be. It was worth waiting ten years for this 
hour, this hour when you feel your degradation as 
trenchantly as I felt mine then. 

Ciara. I never degraded you. 

EckoLp. Yes, you did. You degraded me, 
made me look ridiculous and heaped insult upon 
insult. Were it not he, I might perhaps have for- 


32 


THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION 








gotten — forgiven. My anger would have dis- 
solved into thin air, my hate would have vanished. 
But you gave yourself to him of all people — to 
him who has inherited all things from childhood 
— everything which was denied me. I was filled 
with doubts and qualms. But it was he who al- 
ways gave himself airs, held himself a better man 
because, forsooth, nature had endowed him with a 
gayer temperament. ‘That galled my heart. But 
it also lent me patience to allow my hate to swell. 

Ciara. He? What piece of good fortune 
did he come into? Who on earth is so fortunate 
that you should speak such words of envy? 

Ecxoip. Do you hide his precious name still 
—Ormin’s name? The lordly Ormin’s, the su- 
perior Ormin’s, the favorite of the gods — 

CLARA [stupefied|]. Ormin? But that — Or- 
min? Suppose it’s all a mistake? 

EckxoLtp. Eh? What sudden notion of yours 
is this? 

CiaRA. Produce your evidence, if you have 
any. Produce it. 

Eckoip. The trick comes too late. Ten 
times —a hundred times you betrayed yourself. 
But how could you fancy that all suspicions were 
disarmed, and all foresight provided, simply be- 
cause he engaged lodgings for your dove-cote un- 
der an assumed name? Naturally, the investiga- 
tions were made a trifle difficult through the genial 
pseudonym of Ernst Mayer, but they led even- 
tually to the goal, even though it was just in the 
nick of time. Had you broken with him on the 
tenth of May instead of on the next day, then I 
should have had practically no evidence against 


33 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








you. For on the next day, a little nervous per- 
haps about your security, Mr. Ernst Mayer de- 
cided to go away on a journey — it is not recorded 
where — and your love’s young dream came to an 
end. I am quite well posted, am I not? And 
how beautifully everything adjusted itself for us. 
Had I also seen you disappear on the next day 
from that house — 

CLARA. Well? 

Ecxoip. Oh, I don’t know. Maybe your 
dove-cote episode would have ended tragically. 
For a trace of folly will be found in every one of 
us — in the Ormins as well as the Eckolds of the 
world. As it was, however, I had time to think 
it over. I did think it over and came to the con- 
clusion that I would keep silent until today. 

CraRA. And in his presence today — 

Eckxotp. Why should I trouble about him? 
Sentimental ninny! Who in his old age, realiz- 
ing that his gifts are growing stale, crosses the 
sea, seeking in the romantic atmosphere of pes- 
Bene and war, a reconciliation with his worthy 
wife — 

CLARA. Why do you abuse him? 

EckoLtp. Why not? Wasn’t his whole life a 
public abuse of me? 

CrarA. If you felt that way about it why 
didn’t you say so to his face today? 

EcKo.tp. Men need not talk earnestly and in 
detail about such things. What women mean to 
me, what women have meant to me from a cer- 
tain moment in my life, others as well as you, I’ve 
never hidden from him. In the same way he has 
always known that I have penetrated to the inner- 


34 


THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION 





) 


most recesses of his rather delicate and complacent 
soul. 

CrarA. There is nothing to see in him. He 
never played comedy parts as you have. He was 
always truthful. 

Ecko p. Is the old witchery still effective, do 
you think? Positively you are beginning to pity 
me. 

Ciara. I don’t need to. I’ve been happy in 
my time, as happy as any woman can hope to be. 
I am still happy today — in the consciousness that 
I once belonged to him. Nothing can rob me of 
that memory. It was he and no one else. And 
I loved him beyond words. Beyond words — do 
you follow me? As 1 have loved nobody else in 
the world. Oh, I shall never forget that I was 
happy in this house and that I was intimate for 
so many years with no one as with you. And you, 
too, later, when you are calmer, will call to mind 
those happy hours. But what were the gifts life 
offered, what was domestic happiness, maternal 
bliss, compared to the lease rea ecstasy 
eee I was — his — his — when I was his all-in- 
a —_— 

EckoLp. You saw him today for the last 
time. Do you realize that? You understand 
now why I forewent the opportunity of explana- 
tion with him. 

Ciara. I understand. Oh, I understand 
everything so lucidly that I am going to leave this 
house — tonight. 

Ecxotp. We are of one mind. But why 
leave just today? I give you leave to stay as long 
as you like. 





30 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








Ciara. As it is, it is ten years too late. 

Ecko Lp [shrugging his shoulders]. You know 
my view. Really I’m not unthankful toward 
those first years of our marriage, but today — but 
today the time had come to speak about those 
other matters. Cruel words in cases like this are 
unavoidable. [Glances out of the window.| | 
haven’t given up hope altogether that later, per- 
haps, we will talk quietly. Have you nothing 
else to say to me? Well, then, this — this eve- 
ning let it be. There are, of course, certain nec- 
essary formal matters to be discussed. I have to 
go now—I must [hesitates, then]— Adieu. 
[Clara remains silent. Eckold goes out. Clara 
stands alone for a space, rigid and immobile; then, 
as if awaking from a trance, she darts into the 
room on the left, and returns almost immediately 
with her hat and wraps. She hesitates. Then 
seating herself at the small secretary, she takes a 
blank sheet of paper and starts to write. Almost 
inaudibly. | 

CLARA. What’s the good? Words lie. 
[Rising.| Bettina? She needs me no longer. 
[ Rings. ] 

Maip [who has entered]. Did you ring, 
madam? 

Ciara. I shall be home rather late tonight. 
Don’t wait with the supper. [Goes out. The 
maid gazes at her somwhat perplexed. | 


[ CuRTAIN. ] 


36 


THE BIG SCENE 
A Piay IN ONE Act 
PERSONS 


CoNRAD HERBOT, an actor. 
SOPHIE, his wife. 

EpGAR GLEY. 

Doctor FALK, director of a theatre. 
VILMA FLAMM. 

A BELL-HOP. 

A THEATRE EMPLOYEE. 


[ScENE. An apartment in a fashionable ho- 
tel. There is a door framed in the back wall 
giving onto the corridor; another, hung with 
portiéres, on the left, conducting to an adjoin- 
ing room. Down left, a fireplace with brightly 
burning logs. Directly in front of the fireplace, 
a small table with a settee. In the centre, a 
thought to the right, an ordinary escritoire with 
telephone apparatus. 

Alongside the escritoire, as if tentatively 
pushed up, is a divan. In the back, left, al- 
coves skillfully concealed by curtains. There 
is a rather large window on the right affording 
a glimpse of the theatre vis-a-vis. Two ward- 
robes flank either side of the door in the back. 

Late afternoon on a day toward the end of 


37 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








= 


fall. For several minutes the room remains 
vacant. Then, a knock. Pause. The knock- 
ing is resumed. 

A Bell-hop glides in by way of the door in 
the back. He is carrying several letters. Al- 
most simultaneously Sophie enters from the 
other door. | 


SopHleE. Letters? [The Bell-hop intent on 
putting the letters on the escritoire approaches 
her.| Any forme? [She relieves him of the let- 
ters and glances hastily through the pile. She 
puts three on the escritoire and keeps one in her 
hand.| Ah! From him. [The Bell-hop goes. 
Sophie moves to the window with the letter, which 
she proceeds feverishly to open. She reads it, 
smiles as if pleased, shakes her head and then re- 
sumes reading. In the midst of this, she is inter- 
rupted by another knock.| Come in. 

[The Bell-hop re-enters, this time with a card 

which he hands to Sophie. | 

SopHIE. Vilma Flamm? I don’t recollect 
ever meeting her. 

Beii-Hop. ‘The lady says she comes by pre- 
vious appointment. 

SOPHIE. By previous appointment? Ah, quite 
so. You will please inform the lady that my hus- 
band — that Mr. Herbot, actor by appointment 
to the Burgtheatre, is not at home. [The Bell- 
hop goes. | 

SOPHIE [continues reading her letter. Her 
face shows that she is profoundly touched]. No. 
What an idea! Surely he doesn’t believe —[a 
knock]. 1 wonder what that is now? Come in. 


38 


THE BIG SCENE - 





SS 


[Vilma Flamm enters. She is a girl some- 
where in the vicinity of twenty-two, fash- 
ionably but not, one would say, expensively 
gowned. Nor, taken all in all, is she particu- 
larly attractive, due perhaps to the fact that 
her hat is so immense and her coif so dis- 
tinctly and unmistakably of Pre-Raphaelite 
origin. Her eyes are lustrous and dark. 
She is slightly ill at ease under Sophie’s ap- 
praising look. | 

Vitma. I beg your pardon — 

SopHiE. Miss Flamm, I believe —? 

Vitma. Yes. I come at the request of — 

SOPHIE. Didn’t the boy tell you? Mr. Her- 
bot is not at home just now. 

Vitma. I hope you will forgive me, but I 
couldn’t help thinking there must be some mis- 
take since Mr. Herbot asked me here at five to- 
day. I’m afraid I am a trifle late. Do you ex- 
pect Mr. Herbot back shortly? 

SOPHIE [extremely cool]. I can’t say for cer- 
tain. Don’t you think you had better call again 
some other time? Or— would you prefer wait- 
ing in the lobby? 

Vitma. I —wait? I’m not strong on the art 
of waiting. And besides—I presume you are 
Mr. Herbot’s secretary? 

SopHieE. No, I am his wife. 

VitMa [involuntarily]. Ah! 

SoPHIE. ‘The announcement seems to occasion 
you a good deal of amazement, Miss Flamm. 

VitmaA. Oh no. Only I was under the im- 
pression — to be sure, it’s common gossip by now, 
that Mr. Herbot is divorced from his wife. 


39 





COMEDIES OF WORDS 








SOPHIE [with admirable self-possession]. A 
mistake, I assure you. 

VitmMA. ‘Thank Heaven for that. 

SopHiE [wheeling half-way round]. Very 
good of you to say so, I’m sure. [With greater 
affableness.| If you'd care to leave a message for 
my husband —? 

Vitma. I do hope you won’t mind! But, 
you see, it’s rather of a personal nature. I came 
expecting to get a try-out from Mr. Herbot, who 
has made a great name for himself at the Burg- 
theatre. 

SOPHIE. A try-out? 

VitmMaA. Perhaps I ought to tell you that I am 
preparing myself for a career on the stage. For 
six months, or thereabouts, I’ve been a pupil of 
Madame Fuchs. But lately I have gotten into 
the habit of questioning very seriously whether 
her method is quite the correct one. It goes with- 
out saying, that the members of my family are ut- 
terly opposed to the idea. My father’s a mer- 
chant in the city — Flamm and Sons, Haberdash- 
ers. The sons are my brothers. I gave Mr. 
Herbot full particulars about myself in a letter 
which I sent him a little over a week ago. And 
in reply Mr. Herbot was generous enough to call 
this appointment for five o’clock today. I sup- 
pose he’s forgotten all about it. 

SOPHIE. Quite possible, since, as you say, he 
made it eight days ago— [2A knock.] 

VILMA [eagerly]. Come in. Oh—TI beg — 
your pardon. 

[Sophie smiles involuntarily. The Bell-hop ap- 

pears with a card. | 


40 


THE BIG SCENE 








SOPHIE. Oh, certainly. Show him in. 

ees enters. He is a small slender man, 
clean-shaven, with a pair of keen penetrating 
eyes. He wears a tortoise-shell pince-nez 
which he removes instinctively from time to 
time from the bridge of his nose. He is 
wearing an overcoat. In one hand he 
clutches a stick and in the other a manuscript 
case. | 

FaLK. Well, here I am. I didn’t wait to be 
shown in. 

SOPHIE [quite beside herself with joy. Offer- 
ing him her hand|. Good evening, dear friend. 
[Lo Vilma, who remains standing gazing wide- 
eyed at the ‘director. ] You will pardo on me, Miss 
Flamm, but, if I were you, I would write again. 

Vitma. Would it be too presumptuous to beg 
you to present me to the director — 

[Falk turns away after shooting a withering 

glance at Vilma. | 

SOPHIE [slightly confused]. For the moment 
— [ — have forgotten your name — 

Vitma. If you will allow me, I will introduce 
myself: I am Vilma Flamm, actress by profession 
— an actress, that is, about to be. Herr Director 
you see before you one of your most ardent ad- 
mirers. [I rarely visit any other theatre but yours. 
So I would take this opportunity — 

Fark. But I would not. [Turns away.] 

VitMA. It was wholly unintentional, I assure 
you. It must have been the hand of destiny — 

FaLkK. Perhaps. If so, then you have en- 
tirely misread the drift of this hand. I do not dis- 
cuss theatrical business outside of my office, and 


41 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








there only between two and three, afternoons, by 
previous arrangement. 

VitmaA. Then may I call on you tomorrow at 
two—? 

FALK. Please don’t put yourself out, my dear 
young lady. We have no vacancy at the present 
moment. But you are young yet; my advice to 
you is to try the provinces. Germany, believe me, 
is rich in excellent — 

VILMA [as if suddenly struck with the idea]. 
Theatres. 

FaLk. Railways. Good evening, Miss — 

Vitma. At all events, I shall never forget this 
hour. 

Fak. I can’t put a stop to your memory, I’m 
sure. 

VILMA. Good evening, Mrs. Herbot. Good 
evening, Herr Director. 

[She goes out. ] 

FALK [still flourishing his stick]. Why do you 
let people of that description cross your threshold, 
Mrs. Herbot. May I —? 

[He places his stick and overcoat on the divan, 

but retains the case in his hand. | 

SoPpHIE. I couldn’t help it. She came in un- 
awares. Herbot, it seems, had made an appoint- 
ment with her in order, as she says, to give her a 
try-out. 

FaLk. One shouldn’t object to that. Occa- 
sionally he is obsessed with the idea of instruct- 
ing the young. 

SopHIE. There are times when — I —I feel 
as if [ must pack my things and leave him. 

FaLk. It wouldn’t pay, that. As regards this 


42 


THE BIG SCENE 








would-be actress, she needn’t trouble you nor me 
nor even him very much. Proof is, he wasn’t even 
at home when she called. 

SopHIE. He wrote her eight days ago when, 
supposedly, he was divorced. 

FALK. Ohno. 

SopHl£c. And if I hadn’t come yesterday — 

FALK [seizing the occasion]. But you are 
here, my dear Sophie. Let’s keep to that just 
now. And that’s why I’ve come: to offer you my 
welcome and congratulations on your return. 

SopHIE. Thanks. I gladly accept your wel- 
come. But as to the congratulations —do you 
think they are a propos? 

FaLk. Indeed they are. A thousand con- 
gratulations. I’ve already congratulated your 
husband at rehearsal today, and I daresay I have 
every reason in the world to congratulate myself, 
besides, on winning back my star actor. 

SoPHIE. But you never lost him, to begin with. 

Fark. Still — 

SopHIE. Oh, I followed his repertory day by 
day. He played, in all, from September Ist un- 
til today, October 30th. Six times a week, and 
in the course of this period he created two brand- 
new parts, one classic and the other modern. And 
both, I understand, were successes. 

FaLk. Successes? H’m. That’s as you look 
at it. To my way of thinking, he made a fizzle 
of these parts. Why, I couldn’t help hissing him 
myself — under my breath, of course, because 
noisy manifestations of disapproval are prohibited 
in my theatre. Oh yes; he made a hit with the 
gallery. What else do you expect? Good 


43 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








Heavens, a dozen geniuses can be ruined and laid 
away before the great general public or, for that 
matter, the critics get even an inkling that one of 
the most cherished idols of the day is threatening 
to topple. Only the other day,— it was in Tasso 
— he tripped up disgracefully on lines no fewer 
than seven times. ‘The gullible, easily credulous 
public, I daresay, thought each slip-up a fresh 
nuance. In addition he’s fallen into a habit of 
mouthing — the same mannerism, in fact, which 
he used to pull off before I came along and literally 
rescued him from the Burgtheatre. 

SOPHIE. Don’t try to cry down the Burgthe- 
atre. It’s superior to — most others. 

Fak. Oh, of course. That’s a regular little 
pet view which you Viennese hold. Let me tell 
you, dear Sophie, it would have spelled the end of 
Herbot as an actor if he — 

SopHig. If he had stayed on at the Burg- 
theatre? 

Fark. Ah—no. I mean, if you two had not 
béen brought together again. As a patron of 
German art in general and as a director of a the- 
atre in particular, I was bound to bring you both 
to your senses. 

SOPHIE. Oh! 

Fark. And to thrust you into his arms. 

SopHig. Indeed? Then it was the theatre di- 
rector, not my husband, who sent me those appeal- 
ing letters. 

FaLk. Appealing or not, at all events, I am 
gratified that they were not sent unavailingly. 
And I can’t help coddling myself into thinking that 


44 


THE BIG SCENE 








not only my theatre, but Herbot himself and you, 
above all, are going to gain by it. 

SopHIec. Will you not admit —be truthful 
now! —that I acted a little precipitately in com- 
ing so soon. 

Fak. I don’t think so. But, touching those 
other things, I don’t care to be pretentious. It is 
for the best; it is good for you too, that Herbot 
and you have made it up. You belong to one an- 
other. Yes, apart from whatever indiscretions 
you may have committed or may, in future, com- 
mit ! 

SOPHIE. You! 

FaLk. I mean, either of you. And as for 
him — well, this is by no means the first time that 
I’ve called your attention to it — you must really 
take him as he is. Wherever geniuses are to be 
considered, you can always count on a certain 
amount of poignant grief to directors as well as to 
women. 

SOPHIE. Except that, in the case of the direc- 
tor, the grief has its recompense. 

FALK. Don’t say that, Sophie. Ultimately, 
it has its recompense for you women, too. You 
must exult exquisitely, you women, when you real- 
ize that a jack-a-napes fashioned along Herbot’s 
lines, is directly dependent on you, and that this 
dependency increases from year to year. In 
short, if you will have the truth, he can neither 
live nor act without you. Don’t you perceive, 
Sophie, if ever there existed an indisputable mark 
of love, then here it is. And since you cannot 
live without him — 

SOPHIE. I’m not so sure of that. 


45 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








Fak. Well, at all events, you are here. 
- The rest will follow, if it hasn’t already. But 
let me have a good look at you, Sophie. Se- 
clusion, it seems, has worked wonders with you 
— if seclusion it was. 

SopHIE. Doctor! Whatever can you be 
thinking of? 

Fak. Well, assuming for an instant it were 
true, nobody would count it against you. Least 
of all, he. And revenge, if you'll forgive the 
bromide, is said to be sweet. 

SOPHIE. Revenge is a thing I do not under- 
stand. - 

FaALK. Oh, well, it doesn’t matter much be- 
cause revenge —at least in cases like this — 
rarely comes unalloyed. For the doer of ven- 
geance, so called, a good deal of the sweetness 
is thinned in the process, a fact which has some- 
how got itself overlooked in the proverb. Why 
are you laughing, Sophie? 

SoPHIE. What you just said, is very clever. 
But how ruthlessly you’d cut it out, if by chance 
you came across it in the dialogue of one of your 
playwrights ! 

FaLk. Well, what do you expect? Wisdom 
on the stage is like sowing the sands. It’s alto- 
gether out of place. But to take up again our 
uncut dialogue: Ah, but you have grown slen- 
derer and a shade paler in complexion. 

SopHIE. You only fancy so, doctor. I’m 
looking fine. And, all in all, I had a splendid 
time. Seclusion isn’t such a bad thing after all 
— and bracing, quite bracing, believe me. Just 
think: to stroll for hours along the stretch of 

46 


THE BIG SCENE 








beach or to lose oneself in some beautiful book or 
to lie, perfectly relaxed, in a boat and gaze up, 
drinking in the blue immensity of the heavens; 
but, above and beyond all this, not to have to lis- 
ten to lies, lies — the whole livelong day. 

FALK. You exaggerate, Sophie. Lies —! 
There are no such things as lies in the world. 
There are only people who permit themselves to 
be fooled. And you were never one of them, 
Sophie. On the other hand, there are certain 
human relations that are founded on lies. Only 
this fact must be ignored, never traded on. In 
spite of everything, Herbot loves you and has al- 
ways loved you. This is the undeniable truth, no 
matter what has happened. 

SOPHIE. And will happen in the future, you 
must add. 

Fatk. It will never happen again. This 
would-be tragedy queen in her rather piteous di- 
lemma is negligible, any way you take her. 
Surely Herbot couldn’t foresee eight days ago 
that you’d give in. He probably wanted to lay 
in fuel for the winter. 

SOPHIE. Do you condone this sort of thing 
too? Do you realize that he wrote me daily, 
though I haven’t replied with so much as a couple 
of cool lines. And what letters! 

Fark. More beautiful than mine? 

SoPpHIE. It seemed that he had no other 
thought, no other longing but for me. 

Fatk. Which is quite true. Shall I tell you, 
Sophie, how this spoiled child wept like a babe 
because of you. You won’t take unfair advan- 
tage of the confidence, I hope. And not only did 


47 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








he come up and weep in my quiet chambers, but 
recently, the other day, in fact, we were sitting 
in the restaurant and he was to all intents and 
purposes gay; and then suddenly he dropped his 
ae on the table and commenced whimpering like 
a dog. 

on And in your apartment, you say, he 
wept like a babe. Doubtless this is a fine distinc- 
tion. 

FALK. Well then, if you'll have it so, like a 
dog — 

SOPHIE. But in the restaurant, I suppose, you 
first opened a “‘ pottle Sec,” as he calls it. 

Fak. No use denying it. 

SopHIE. He did drink with you — 

FaLk. Only when despair got the better of 
him. 

SoPHIE. But you'll admit that he got pleasure 
out of it. 

Fark. Yes. Life runs its course. That’s 
from one of my playwrights. Not very pro- 
found, I daresay, but it hits the bull’s-eye. And 
so what can we do but resign ourselves to our 
destinies? Tonight, after the final curtain of 
Hamlet — 11.45 —in honor of the reunion of 
husband and wife, and of the cause of German art, 
we'll blow ourselves to a “ pottle”’ of wine. And 
I promise you, he won’t start whimpering to- 
night — But what the deuce can be keeping him 
so long? 

SopHIE. His usual afternoon stroll — or, 
who knows, he may be betraying me with some 
tragedienne or banker’s wife — or simply a shop- 
girl. 

48 


THE BIG SCENE 








Fatk. Oh please! Betraying you—! Be- 
fore Hamlet? Incredible! 

SoPHIE [laughing involuntarily]. What's that 
you’re promenading back and forth? 

Fark. Oh this? This is a new play. A 
very interesting part for him? I want him to 
look at it. Now that the affair [with a bow] 
has been successfully concluded, I know I can trust 
in his judgment. 

SOPHIE. You flatter me. 

Fak. But, tell me, when did you arrive, 
Frau Sophie, which being rendered into our be- 
loved German tongue, means, not without good 
reason, Frau Wisdom. 

SopHIE. Last night. Oh, you needn’t pull a 
wry face. The hotel was overcrowded. We got 
this room this morning. 

FaLK. Seriously now, doesn’t it speak well 
for him that he has kept your charming apart- 
ment locked up and sworn an oath that he won’t 
cross the threshold except arm in arm with you? 

SOPHIE. Oh yes, there are some oaths which 
he keeps. You see, the hotel, being directly op- 
posite the theatre, is altogether more convenient 
for —try-outs and coaching — 

Fatk. Enough. Either you’re reconciled or 
you’re not reconciled. Why are you suspicious? 
Have you any grounds? Quite frankly, I didn’t 
come here with the single purpose of congratulat- 
ing you. There is a promise I want to obtain 
from you, if I can. 

SopHIE. A promise? 

FaLk. That you won’t go through the same 
rigmarole again. 


49 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








SoPHIE. Rigmarole? I? 

FaLtk. I mean, that you won’t leave him 
again. I can’t afford accidents in the middle of 
the season. ‘This time you fled on August 14th, 
and it wasn’t until September 1st that he recovered 
sufficiently to act. Now wouldn’t I be in a fine 
fix, if you were to do it again when the play we’re 
producing happens to be a hit? I simply can’t 
let matters reach that pass. And so I want you to 
promise me — 

SopHIE. Hadn’t we better sign a contract? 

FaLk. Contract—? Oh please! I wish 
you to give your promise gratuitously, out of a 
sense of conviction, insight and understanding of 
my position. He, I know, won't trespass again. 
As a conductor of a place of amusement, you real- 
ize that I am committed, like the prohibition of 
smoking in the theatre, to anticipate every eventu- 
ality. And so if this little thing should happen 
again — 

SopHIE. Doctor! You amaze me. Little 
thing! Have I been speaking to the four winds? 
Or must I assume that in this lying world, even 
such a respectable member of society — such a 
gentleman as yourself, has lost, along with the 
rest, the power to differentiate between levity and 
— baseness? 

FaLtk. But — but — 

SopHlE. Under such circumstances, how can I 
come back to him? 

FaLk. You needn’t come back to him. To 
begin with, you should not go away at all. Why 
don’t you take things less tragically? You can 
do it. You have proved it over and over again. 


50 


THE BIG SCENE 








To be truthful with you, I can’t understand why 
you left this time —? 

SOPHIE. You can’t understand? You, who 
have been a bystander through it all, from begin- 
ning to end? 

FALK. You remember three years ago? I 
was a bystander to that too. As far as I can 
tell, the cases are alike. Faithless once, faith- 
less always. Why did you leave this time —? 

SoPHIE. They are different, dear friend. At 
that time we two alone, Herbot and I, had to 
make it up with one another. The happiness of 
other people was not at stake. 

FaLK. Of course a third person was involved. 
That’s in the very nature of these affairs. 

SopHIE. Philinchen? A_ frivolous woman 
who’d gone through almost everything, and who 
had no responsibility whatever to herself or to 
anybody else. And then, when a man plays the 
same dangerous role night after night for a hun- 
dred nights, and you are playing opposite him — 
it’s like tempting fate. I saw it coming on the 
first night, huge, irresistible. After that the only 
question was at which performance the affair 
would come to full fruition. 

FaLk. It was on the ninth. By the twenty 
fifth it was closed. 

SopHigE. You keep your books accurately, 
doctor. 

Fatk. I am half a parent to Herbot. And 
I assure you, had it lasted longer, I should have 
substituted another Rautendelein. Entirely on 
your account, dear Sophie. Because I knew you 
did mind, in spite of what you say. 

Ee 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 


SopHIE. Mind? Ah no. I understood it. 
I said to myself: What would happen to you 
if you played opposite a man like Herbot, night 
after night? Unfortunately, there is no other 
like him. I can quite grasp how like incense, like 
a wild abandon, a nightmare, the feeling would 
come over one —and then at last one awakes. 
This forbearance did not come at once. In the 
throes of my first anguish, I wanted to kill them. 

FALK. Both? 

SOPHIE [earnestly]. Him —at least, him. 

FaLk. And what about me? Eh? I should 
have had to put off my play. And a fine chance 
I’d have, getting on my feet again! 

SopHIE [laughing involuntarily]. But how do 
you explain the fact that, after Herbot, others 
played the part? 

FaLk. Later— much later. Before a per- 
formance, I warn you, no star is allowed to be 
murdered. Now you have an inkling of what 
drawbacks there are in this repertory business. 
But many thanks for not carrying out your inten- 
tion. You were wise in thinking better of it, Just 
as now — 

Sopuie. I’m not sure yet whether it’s the best 
thing in this case, though. ° 

FaLK. Right after the affair — after that first 
crisis, I remember quite well that you really be- 
came mated for the first time. And you were 
wonderfully happy. At least until August of this 
year. And, trust me, you will be happy together 
again. 

SopHigE. Wonderfully happy? 

FALK. Certainly. 








§2 


THE BIG SCENE 








SoFHIE. I don’t think so. Even though I’ve 
come back, be assured it can never mean happiness 
again. 

FALK. But — 

SOPHIE. Only think, doctor, who the favorite 
is now. A young girl, an innocent young girl 
about to be married. And her fiancé is a splendid 
young man who is quite daft about the girl. Be- 
sides, he and Herbot are quite friendly. Has 
anyone the right to jeopardize a third person in 
an affair of this kind? 

Fak. In a higher sense, certainly not. But 
in the present instance the happiness of a third 
person is not in peril. The fellow knows abso- 
lutely nothing, and the wedding will take place 
in eight days. 

SoPHIE. Oh, that is the least consideration. 

Fak. I’m afraid, Sophie, you’ve been to too 
many performances of Ibsen at my threatre. 
Luckily, Herbot has no use for Ibsen and regards 
the affair as comparatively harmless — not very 
different from that other one. At that time, it 
was the case of a young girl of good family too; 
yes, and she was about to be married. But an af- 
fair of this sort doesn’t always imply a climax, as 
you think. With the perplexities of conscience 
Herbot has no patience. His is much too primi- 
tive — let us be frank — his is too wholesome a 
nature. 

SopHIE. Wholesome? Is that the correct 
word? 

FALK. Really, I never dreamed you'd take the 
thing so painfully. At first I had no idea when 
the affair would peter out. They were wrapped 


53 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








up in one another and noticed nothing or seemed 
to notice nothing. Naturally I wondered a bit, 
and I dare say I had cause to wonder too. 

SopHiec. ‘That’s a bit dark, doctor. 

FALK. Well, what I mean is that I should 
certainly have wondered if they had let the thing 
go on that way, if at the critical moment I had not 
found them with entanglements elsewhere. 

SOPHIE [smiling]. Indeed. How you notice 
everything, dear doctor. 

Fatk. You don’t have to be particularly 
sharp for that. And I, as an old skillful drama- 
tist, cannot lay the tragic blame at your door. 

SOPHIE [very earnestly]. Perhaps you are 
right. But I am not altogether without blame. 
Otherwise I should not have come back. 

Fatk. And wouldn’t it be much nicer — and 
here the unmoral casuist puts the question — 
wouldn’t it somewhat relieve the situation if you 
were likewise — how shall I put it? — caught in 
a fault? 

SopHIE. Perhaps. Similar thoughts have 
come to me unaided in my seclusion. 

Fak. Similar thoughts occurred to you, and 
yet you remained alone? 

SopHIE. Do you still doubt that? 

Fatkx. Ohno! 

SoPHIE. I don’t think you have a true account 
of the affair to which you allude. And since I feel 
that you are a friend — 

FaLtk. You have none better — 

SopHIE. Then you ought to know the truth. 
My truth. Here is a letter which I received from 
him one hour ago. From him. 


54 


THE BIG- SCENE 








FaLk. From him? From the young chap 
sporting the hunting cap? My chess opponent? 

SOPHIE. You referred to him, didn’t you? 
Or did you suspect an escapade with some one 
else? It’s a letter from the young man with 
whom I seemed to you to be so taken up, emo- 
tionally and otherwise, that I allowed the affair 
between my husband and Daisy to take its natural 
course. Would you care to read it? 

FAaLK. Typed, is it? No? Oh, you will 
have to excuse me, Sophie. Read it to me your- 
self with your dark resonant voice. 

SopHIE. I'll read only a few lines which, I 
think, will clear up everything for you. Just a 
minute. [Turns pages and reads.) “I have 
just learnt, dear madam, that you are still in 
Brioni and as ever, alone. Since you left the At- 
tersee lakeside before me and have not, to my 
knowledge, arrived at Vienna, it follows that you 
have not seen your husband for two months.” 
[Interrupts herself.| The letter was forwarded 
to me here. [Reads further.] ‘It is not my 
intention to force myself into your private af- 
fairs, nor to attempt to penetrate what appears 
a self-chosen reticence. Whatever has happened, 
whatever your plans are, I must not presume to 
be concerned any further than you will allow. 
But, if I may, I should like to remind you of one 
hour — a wonderful hour on the shore of the lake 
just before sunset —’’ A wonderful sunset, while 
my husband and Daisy and her fiancé were out 
sailing in the distance. 

FaLk. Is that what our friend means by 

“wonderful ’’? He is undoubtedly referring to 


55 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








something that happened between you and him — 

SOPHIE. It was the hour when he dared utter 
his feelings, for the first and only time. No, he 
didn’t utter them. He betrayed them in a quiet 
but moving way. By kissing my hand! That 
was all. 

FaLk. That may be much. 

SoPHIE. At all events, you must admit, that 
my transgression was very slight. 

Fark. All the more praiseworthy, because 
he’s such a handsome, clean-cut fellow. I’ve 
rarely gotten along with anybody so well. His 
personality gives out a kind of wood smell. I 
welcome an unliterary chap like that as a god- 
send. I'll bet he never wrote a play in his life. 

SopHiE. Ah, yes. They’ve something orig- 
inal to offer, these simple good people who are no 
geniuses. 

FaLk. Good. What a word! That won- 
derful hour on the shore of the lake —I’m in- 
cae to think it depended entirely on you and the 
good — 

SopHIE. You don’t know him, if you say that. 
Even at that moment his intentions were — well, 
honorable. Just asthey arenow. And he clears 
himself, as you will see, in the letter. Let me 
read the ending. [She turns the pages.] 

FaLk. You're skipping a good deal. 

SoPHIE [reading]. ‘‘ Just the same—I am 
just as I was in the summer. When you need a 
sae call on me or, better still, come your- 
se Le) 

FaLK. Come yourself? 

SOPHIE. Listentothe rest. [Reads.] “ My 


56 


THE BIG SCENE — 








life belongs to you.- I am all alone and abso- 
lutely free. If you are free too, Frau Sophie, as 
free as I suppose you to be —” 

Fak [brusquely]. His conjecture is wrong, 
quite wrong. Have you written him so? 

SopHiE. The letter came only an hour ago. 

FaLK. ‘“‘Come yourself.” Not bad, that. 
The fellow seems daft about inviting everybody to 
his hunting-lodge at Klein-Reifling. 

SOPHIE. Everybody? 

Fark. Yes. He’s invited me this summer. 
“Tf,” said he, “‘ you'd care to get away from the 
theatrical groove, come out to Klein-Reifling. 
Wonderful country, you know. We can play 
chess every evening. You don’t have to shoot 
deer, if you don’t care to.” I don’t suppose he 
asked you to shoot, either, Sophie. 

SOPHIE [dropping the letter]. Ah, how 
stupid we are! Why are we humans created 
with the power to ruin the lives of people who 
are innocent and who don’t understand the mean- 
ing of it all? 

Fatk. Understand? Can’t Herbot charge 
you with a want of understanding? Was he as 
bad as you make him out? Does he bother 
about the happiness of others? What are other 
people to him? ‘To him who is accustomed al- 
ways to play the leading part? Supernumeraries 
— people who never get a curtain call and die in- 
gloriously behind the scenes! You can do no 
wrong to such people when you’re composed of 
heroic stuff yourself — What is it? 

SopHIE. He—he is coming. I hear his 
footstep and my heart’s going pit-a-pat, like 

57 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








a young girl’s. Oh, it’s sheer faint-heartedness. 
/ Fak. On the contrary. It’s just as it 
should be. 

[Conrad Herbot enters. He is aman of about 
45 with dark curly hair and a pair of grey- 
striped black eyes. He is wearing an over- 
coat and hat.) 

HeErBot. Good evening. [Slaps Falk on the 
shoulder.| Well, what do you say, old chap? 
Now I’m at home, as it were, even though this 
happens to be — for the time being — nothing 
better than a room in a hotel. [Pats Sophie’s 
cheek.| Good evening, dear. [To _ Falk.] 
She’s looking extremely well, isn’t she? And 
pretty too? Let me tell you, it’s quite cozy now 
that she’s come back. 

Fak. I second that. 

HersotT. The last few hours have brought 
me back to my old self quite remarkably, and it’s 
almost as if it had never been otherwise. The 
two months are dead and forgotten. Hola! 
Hola! 

SopHiE. But I was away, wasn’t I? You 
speak now as the Berliners do. 

Hersot [removing his overcoat]. Of course. 
Of all things, she can’t bear that. [Exaggerat- 
ing the Viennese accent.] Goin’ to be good from 
now on, little dearie ? 

Fak. Well, [ll leave you two together — 
newly-weds just home from church. 

Sopuigz. Won't you stay for a cup of coffee? 

FaLk. Thanks. I really can’t stay any 
longer. [Sophie rings. ] 

Hersor. Are you leaving us again so soon? 

58 


THE BIG SCENE 








Fatk. I’ve been here an hour already. 
Where have you been gadding about at this hour? 

Hersot [glancing at the clock|. Good 
Heavens, it’s half past six already. Ah, but 
there’s a great fascination in walking about the 
streets when you know there’s someone at home 
waiting for you. 

FaLk. Only, as I remember, it wasn’t quite 
fascinating for the person who had to wait. 
Well, see you later at the theatre. [To Sophie. ] 
I’ve kept your box for you. Outside of that the 
house is all sold out. 

Hersot. A work of art! 

FALK. Goodbye. 

Hersot. Now that you’re here, I want to 
reiterate that you don’t pay me half the salary 
that’s coming to me. So long! Will you be in 
the box too? 

FaLk. On one condition: that you will play 
your part with some degree of intelligence. 

Hersot. You villain! In honor of this 
glorious day, suppose we drop into the Kannen- 
berg after the play and open a pottle of Sec — 

SOPHIE. Conrad! 

HersotT. What—is it, my dear? Oh, al- 
right. [Mimicking the Viennese.| Let’s have 
some suds instead and a plate of goulash. Eh? 
What do you say to that? 

FaLk. That depends on Sophie. 

[Waiter enters, receives orders from Sophie 

and goes out. | 

Hersot [catching sight of the manuscript]. 
What’s that? 

FaLk. The play I spoke about this morning. 


59 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 


Herspot. Another? Thank God _ Sophie’s 
here at least. My vacation, I perceive, is over at 
last. I have about a half dozen of them over 
there. Believe me, Falk, I tried my hardest to 
look through one and then another; and the result 
is a brain-storm. 

FaLk. Did you ever hear anything like it? 
[To Sophie.] ‘The foremost names in the Ger- 
man dramatic world. 

Hersot. Well, I should like awfully to say 
something straight out to you, Falk. To me 
every play at the reading seems pure twaddle. 
And in the majority of cases I am right. As a 
matter of fact, with many, when you see them on 
the stage — 

Fatk. With Conrad Herbot in the leading 
part. 

Hersot. That never did hurt any play. 
Doubtless you sometimes feel as I do, that all this 
theatrical clap-trap is the merest flummery. 
Backdrop and wings! ‘The curtain goes up and 
the curtain goes down, and nine times out of ten 
the fellow who trafficks on the boards is a black- 
guard of the — 

Fatk. Leave him alone. 

Hersot. Upon my word, we’re the most 
paradoxical people in the world, we actor-folk. 
In private life, I grant you quite rational — quite. 
Then we strike a pose behind the footlights and 
mouth some bit got by rote, just as if we meant 
it in all seriousness. We enter and we exist and 
out front the audience sit gaping and whisper- 
ing behind their palms. Incredible! That they 
should fall for such a thing. Do you know what 

60 








THE BIG SCENE = 








I think at times? That this so-called art of the 
theatre is simply an invention of the box-office. 

FaLk. A powerful and eke a profound ob- 
servation ! 

Hersot. True, isn’t it? And yet if the pub- 
lic were informed of this fact, it would ruin your 
business, wouldn’t it? Well, for the time being 
I’m going to keep it to myself; but some day, I 
don’t mind telling you, I’m going to write an arti- 
cle to this tune — when the time is ripe— _ It 
would make a splendid Christmas supplement. 
The public’s very fond of that sort of thing. 

FaLtk. You'd better wait a bit, that is, until 
you've stopped drawing a salary. Next year per- 
haps or the year after. 

Hersotr. Oh yes, that would suit you to a 
dot. You want to lay by a pile meanwhile. 
Well, good luck to you, if you can do it. Oh, 
and by the way, if there’s going to be a raft of 
junk cluttering the doorway of my dressing room 
the same as yesterday, during Tasso, I'll raise 
such a rumpus — 

Fatk. And if you fill your dressing room with 
cigarette smoke again, I'll give you two weeks’ 
notice — 

Hersor. Just what I’m waiting for. Then 
I'll be able to lead a normal life for the rest of 
my days. Lying at ease on the grass and gazing 
up at the blue sky, or with a gun plopping through 
the meadows and the fertile fields — 

Fatk. Witha gun? 

Herzor. Certainly. It’s not a bad substitute 
for the stage. 


61 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








Fatk. Did my chess opponent, the fellow 
with the green hat, invite you too? 

ene Herr von Bolschau. Of course he 
did. 

FALK. It’s an obsession with him. 

Hersot. Charming fellow, Bolschau is. 
Ask Sophie. She likes him too. Isn’t that so, 
dear? [Jn Berlinese.| We know whom to like 
and whom not to like, don’t we, my dear? 

FaLk. I won’t let you go. You’ve no busi- 
ness in Klein-Reifling. Well, auf wiedersehen. 
I invite myself to your box, Sophie. [Goes.] 

Herspot. What a soul that man has! In our 
last contract I fell beautifully for him. Well, 
he’ll have to shell out or I sail for America. On 
this side they pay starvation salaries. Well, 
Sophie [drawing her to him], here we are to- 
gether again. But tell me, please. Did you in- 
tend to leave me for good? 

SopHIE. Here I am, back again. So let’s not 
talk about it. Let’s forget it. 

Hersot. Oh, if one only could! You've no 
idea what I suffered while you were away. 
wasn't myself at all. I walked about as in a 
dream — as in an evil dream. And I played 
comedy parts like a swine. Not always — but 
most of the time. 

SOPHIE. Yes, that’s exactly what Falk says. 

Hersot. What? The impudence! I was 
all right for I don’t know how long. I was good 
enough, even for the public. Too good! You 
should penetrate the man first. For a measly 
hundred marks he’d cut his throat. But they’re 
all the same, every one of them. He’s spread- 

62 


THE BIG SCENE - 








ing the rumor about that I’m going back home. 
But nobody believes him. They have eyes and 
ears, thank Heaven! The publicis mine. Now, 
and for a long time to come. And more than 
ever, now —now that you have come back — 
now, believe me. Without you I am lost. 
That’s the truth. I should have given up the 
legitimate stage and gone into vaudeville. In 
vaudeville there’s a better chance to travel and, on 
the whole, it pays better. [The waiter brings tea, 
pastry and sets the tea-table. | 

Hersor. I'll tell you what: In February 
I’m going to take time out and we’ll go to the 
Riviera. I won’t accept your “no.” By God, 
I’ve earned it. Since the time I was a boy I’ve 
longed to go there, and today I am 43. Con- 
nected almost twenty seven years with the theatre. 
Twenty seven. ‘ At the age of sixteen, a mere 
youngster, he ran away ’’— but you know the rest. 
[Waiter goes out.] 

SOPHIE [pouring tea]. Until today I’ve been 
unable to find out from whom you ran away. 
Your parents were reconciled to the idea of your 
going on the stage. 

HeERBOT. Why, of course. You see, at the 
age of 14, I acted all kinds of parts at home. 
‘* The late lamented actor by appointment at the 
Hoftheatre at Bayreuth, Herr Story, who in the 
youngster devoted to Thespis—’’ and so on. 
[ Notices the card.| Whois Vilma Flamm? 

SopHIE. Vilma Flamm is a young lady. 

Hersot. What kind of a young lady? 

- SopHIE. A young artiste with whom you had 
an engagement here. 


63 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








HeErsBot. An engagement? 

SoPHIE. You were going to see if she had any 
talent. She wrote you eight days ago. 

Hersot. Oh yes, the little goose! I hope 
you speedily showed her the door. 

SopHigE. Ofcourse. But you had an appoint- 
ment with her. 

Hersot. Not unlikely. You know some- 
times one replies and sometimes one doesn’t. 
Was anybody else here? 

SOPHIE. Not today. 

Herzsor. Well, if that sort come, just put 
them out. You have plein pouvoir. I don’t give 
try-outs, I do not instruct. I do not write in au- 
tograph albums. On the other hand, it may 
have been a blackmailer. I'll be hanged if I can 
remember the name of Vilma Flamm. [They sit 
at the tea-table. | 

SopHIE. You always had a poor memory. 

Herpor. You don’t expect me to have a 
memory for such things. Just consider what I 
must cram into my head, as it is. The godlike 
words of the master creations of our great poets 
—and all that modern rot, besides. Naturally 
there’s hardly any room for anything else. 

SOPHIE. For nothing at all? 

HerzsotT. To be quite frank, the function is 
under my control. I remember and I forget, just 
as it pleases me. And I assure you, Sophie — I 
know what’s passing through your mind now — 
if I should casually meet a certain lady in the 
street, I’d cut her without a moment’s hesitation. 
I should not recognize her at all. If I should at- 
tempt to recall her features, it would be in vain. 


64 


THE BIG SCENE 








She is a shadow, a ghost, your old grandmother, 
if you like. 

SOPHIE [bursting out]. How could you do it? 

Herzsot. Yes, how could I do it? 

SoPHIE. Her fiancé was your friend. 

Herzpot. Not friend; hardly that. Still, I 
confess, it was a rascally thing to do. And, be- 
ing aware of that, I was amply prepared to pay 
the price. 

SOPHIE. You were—when were you pre- 
pared? 

Herzsot. That very morning, Sophie. When 
I returned home from her arms —I beg your 
pardon — and found you gone and your farewell 
note. Those terrible words! When I realized 
that I had lost you —lost you for ever, do you 
know what agony I suffered? I resolved then to 
go to him, confess what a scoundrel I was and 
frankly tell him that I had betrayed my wife and 
seduced his fiancée — and so on. For hours and 
hours in the early morning dusk I wandered along 
the river-bank and fought a terrific struggle with 
myself, until I saw that I dared not do it. If 
only for the sake of Daisy’s family. But they 
were gloomy days to bear, Sophie, those last five 
days in our country villa—and perhaps the 
greatest ordeal of all was the need of lying, the 
need of going on lying. 

SoPHIE. You mean—? 

Hersor. Well, you see I had to find some 
plausible excuse for your sudden departure. 
And so in my desperation, I invented the yarn of 
a drain bursting in our Berlin apartment. Oh, 
I sketched in the details — details, whole letters 

65 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








from you, humorous turns of expression. Can 
you imagine it! In this way I had to drag on my 
life, on my lips a drain burst and in my heart — 
death. Yes, dearest, it was by no means easy to 
live out the day as if nothing had happened; tak- 
ing your morning bath as before, eating breakfast, 
sailing — 

SopHigE. As if nothing had happened. Both 
day and night. 

HeErsot. Sophie, upon my word, on that day 
when you went away I was done with — 

SopHIE. Don’t pledge your word. Oaths are 
not necessary in reference to the past. The past 
is buried, dead and buried. 

Hersor. Yes, buried a long time ago. 

SopHIE. But the future, that belongs to us, if 
you are willing. 

Hersotr. If I am willing? If I am— 
Sophie, dear! 

Sopuie. And I beg of you, Conrad, above 
all things be truthful. It is the one thing I de- 
mand of you. I can understand everything. I 
can forgive everything. Only, I beg of you, 
don’t put on the comic spirit. Don’t —in my 
presence. It isn’t necessary. Everything which 
you have just said, was not you. There was 
an occasional gleam which shone through your 
mask, but you — your inmost self — it was not 
that; that you, I mean, which abides in the 
recesses of self, very deep within. And I can- 
not resist the feeling that that which you are is 
somehow good—somehow—and on that I 
place my trust. You’ve only got to believe in it 
yourself. Deep in Se ene of your con- 


THE BIG SCENE 








sciousness, I feel — oh so vividly — that you are 
a mere child, nothing but a child. So— 

Herspot. A child? There may be a good 
deal in what you say. I have something to con- 
fess to you, Sophie. Whenever I start intro- 
specting or dreaming about myself, I invariably 
see myself not as a somewhat mature person with 
iron grey hair, but rather as a small boy who 
is always being led by the hand of somebody, by 
his father or his tutor, though, to be sure, I never 
had a tutor. I’m quite amazed sometimes — but 
you must promise me not to let this go further — 
that people talk to me as if I were quite rational 
and wholly grown-up; while I feel an irresistible 
impulse to say to them, “‘ Please let me be. I 
can’t make head or tail of your twaddle. By 
nature I am alien to your confidence.” Yes in- 
deed, Sophie, that was a singularly apt observa- 
tion—Tamachild. [4 knock is heard.| Who 
the deuce can that be? Come in. [Enter boy 
with card. | 

Hersor [ignoring it]. I am not at home. 
[Reads the card and starts.| Eh? 

Sopuir. What is it? [Takes the card out of 
his hand.| Edgar Gley — Edgar — 

Hersot. You heard what I said. I am not 
at home to any one. I play tonight and I am 
busy. 

SopHIE. You must see him, Herbot. 

Hersor. Must? I don’t see that. 

Sopuie [to the Bell-hop]. Wait a minute. 

Hersor. Where is the gentleman waiting? 

Bett-Hop. In the lobby, sir. 

Sopule [under her breath to Herbot\. You 

67 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








can’t avoid this interview. The sooner it is over, 
the better. 

cme Show the gentleman in. [Bell-hop 
goes. 

ee [anxiously and quite earnestly]. Con- 
rad — 

Hersot. What is it? Certainly it shows 
lack of consideration just before Hamlet. 
[Walking back and forth.] 

SOPHIE. Are you sure you haven’t heard 
from him since? 

HeErBoT. I’ve told you, haven’t I? Not for 
two months — it’s quite incredible that he should 
suspect anything. It can’t be about her. 

SOPHIE. How does he come to be here, in 
Berlin? She’s in Vienna. Last we heard of him 
he was in Villach attached to the governor’s suite 
— and suddenly he is here. 

Herpot. On furlough, no doubt. After all, 
Berlin’s a rather interesting city — 

SOPHIE. Are you sure you weren’t imprudent? 
You must have climbed through her window at 
night. Someone must have seen you — 

Hersor. Certainly not he. Otherwise he'd 
have paid me a visit before today. 

SoPHIE. Nonsense! This once I give you 
leave to lie. 

Hersot. Thanks for the privilege. You 
can trust me when it comes to that. But now sup- 
pose you go into the salon. If you should stay 
within hearing, I might — and I want unlimited 
freedom. If I felt that you were eavesdropping, 
I’d be uncertain about myself. Now — 

SOPHIE [anxiously]. Conrad — 

68 


THE BIG SCENE 
——==— —a= 

HeErsot. Be at rest, dearest. [He caresses 
her hair. As he is about to draw her close to 
him, she fends him off gently and goes into the 
adjoining room. For a space he remains mo- 
tionless, then takes up the discarded manuscript, 
turns the pages idly and at length lights a ciga- 
rette. Growing perceptibly impatient, he rises, 
goes to the door on the right and listens. There 
is a knock. He tiptoes noiselessly back into the 
centre of the room and pretends to be absorbed 
in reading the manuscript. There is a second 
knock. | 

Hersot. Come in. [Edgar Gley enters. ] 

Epcar. Good evening. 

HERBOT. Good evening, Mr. Gley. I’m de- 
lighted to see you, even though this be only an 
hotel apartment. 

Epcar. I don’t wish to keep you long, Mr. 
Herbot. 

HERBoT. You know I play tonight. 

Epcar. I know. 

Hersor. I have about a quarter of an hour 
to spare. Won't you take a seat? My wife will 
regret missing — 

EpGaAR [slightly taken aback]. Your wife — 
is here? 

HeErsotT. Of course. Where then should she 
be? She went away for a couple of weeks — 
Ah, you know our apartment was in a terrible 
mess. You remember, don’t you? I believe I 
told you about it— a drain burst. Tomorrow 
or the day after tomorrow it will be in shipshape 
again. The place was almost flooded. Quite a 
bother, let me tell you. And ten thousand marks’ 

69 








COMEDIES OF WORDS 








damage at the very lowest estimate. When 
everything is repaired, we will entertain as be- 
fore. I regret most of all the loss of several 
irreplaceable specimens of handwriting. I am, 
as you are aware, a collector of ancient examples 
of handwriting. Are you interested in that sort 
of thing? [Edgar starts to speak but restrains 
himself as if lacking courage. | 

Hersot [noticing the effort]. But I see I’m 
boring you about myself and my affairs. How 
is your fiancée? I presume you've just come from 
Vienna. 

Epcar. No, straight from Villach. I have 
something to ask you, Mr. Herbot. Please an- 
swer “yes” or “no.” Were you Daisy’s lover? 

Hersotr [rising]. I—? Mr. Gley, I’m 
afraid I do not follow you. What evil-minded — 
slander-monger — 

Epcar. It is quite obvious that you must take 
this stand. But it is equally obvious that noth- 
ing is proved by your disavowal. [Herbot is 
about to interrupt.| Your word of honor proves 
nothing either. 

Hersot. Unfortunately a man has nothing 
outside his word of honor which he can call his 
own. There are people who would be satisfied 
with Conrad Herbot’s mere word of honor. 

Epcar. Ina matter of this sort, do you think? 
Unfortunately I’m not in a position to — 

Herzor. Well, at all events, will you tell me 
from what source you got your information? 
Will you be good enough to show me the anony- 
mous letter? I shall soon prove to you — 


79 


THE BIG SCENE 








Epcar. Let’s not trifle about that. I ask you 
again: Were you Daisy’s lover? 

HeErBot. Since you don’t care to reveal the 
source of this brazen — no, the grounds of your 
libellous suspicion; and since you make it impos- 
sible for me to defend, frankly to deny the charge, 
I therefore propose to you, Mr. Gley, that we 
leave the young woman entirely out of the dis- 
cussion and confine ourselves to the simple fact 
that my nose is an eyesore to you. I promise you 
that I shall feel as injured as you please and — 
we will arrange to meet in one of those delightful 
little glades yonder! 

Epcar. Mr. Herbot, I don’t feel disposed to 
doubt your mood and, I take it, there is no ques- 
tion about mine. Don’t let’s go through a scene 
of high-sounding words. Mr. Herbot, we want, 
if possible,— and to me it is possible — to talk 
like two men—no, let alone every vanity and 
every question of honor in the accepted sense, 
like two human beings. I ask you for the last 
time, Mr. Herbot, please to abandon the man- 
ner you have assumed thus far. I don’t for a 
moment question the correctness of it. But 
please understand that a human being confronts 
you now, Mr. Herbot, one who demands noth- 
ing but the truth, whatever it may be. You fol- 
low me, Mr. Herbot? One who, however poign- 
ant it may be, is ready to bear it. Understand 
me, please, Mr. Herbot, I come neither in the 
guise of a fool nor as an avenger to one who is 
either a knave or who has been unjustly so ac- 
cused. Human to human! If it fell out as I 
suspect, Mr. Herbot, it probably was no dastardly 


71 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








act. If otherwise, then it wasn’t very far from 
it. But no matter what has happened, nothing 
.in the world could force us to face one another 
with pistols so that one of us might— [Herbot 
starts to speak. | 

Epcar. Not yet. You’re going to go on 
lying, I suppose. But please listen to what I 
have to say. I have lived through many things 
—I know what a mere fragrance, what the per- 
fume of summer evenings can do with us. I 
know, too, how far behind us we can thrust our 
lot like a dream which has been told as a tale 
by a stranger. And I know that I am prepared 
to endure anything, except uncertainty. I can 
forgive everything but lies. See how easy the 
truth is made for you! I trust you are beginning 
to understand. Or do you suspect perhaps that 
I am laying a trap for you, unawares. I have, I 
think, surrendered myself completely into your 
hands, Mr. Herbot. I’ve stood here like the 
most pitiful clown. If I had wanted to take ad- 
vantage of your confession and entrap you and 
then to reassume the affronted bridegroom; if 
this were so, you would be at liberty to deny me 
all satisfaction, spit in my face for, whatever you 
may have done, I should have been viler than 
you by far. Can you hesitate still, Mr. Herbot? 
Never, I feel, has one man spoken to another as 
I have done to you. Were you Daisy’s lover? 
You are silent? You must speak. You must 
speak the truth, before it is too late. Yes, Mr. 
Herbot, before it is too late. For should I cas- 
ually learn the truth later — and things of this 
sort are known to exist; there are such things as 


72 


THE BIG. SCENE -- 








belated confessions by women—then I won't 
at a duel with you, then I’d strike you down 
ike a — 

Hersor. Stop. Go no further. I—I am 
at your disposal. Yes, at your disposal? There 
is no way out of this for you or me. 

Epcar. Then you were Daisy’s — 

Hersot. Iwasnot. And yet one of us must 
die. 

Epcar. The truth! The truth! Mr. Her- 
bot. : 

Hersot. What are words—? Now if 
someone had predicted —I beg your pardon, I 
can’t say more. [He goes to the window ap- 
parently moved. However, unobserved of Ed- 
gar he steals a glance at the clock. For a space 
he remains standing at the window. | 

EpGar. Speak out, Mr. Herbot. 

HERsot [turning toward him again]. Child 
of man, how simple the world appears to you! 
Yes and no; truth and falsehood; faith and de- 
ception. Oh, if it were only as simple as that, 
young fr—Mr. Gley. But it is not as simple 
as that. By Heaven, if I were of your mould, 
it would be the easiest thing in the world, in 
order to set your troubled mind at rest, to answer 
your question exactly as you’ve asked it. Yes, it 
would be the easiest thing in the world if some- 
body else had come instead of you — you, Edgar 
Gley, who have been a stranger to me until now. 
If somebody else had come — one of the dozens 
of commonplace folk whose life does not touch 
mine, I should have let him go back to the banal 
world whence he came. To him I might say — 


13 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








no, swear that nothing happened. But, at the 
risk of your calling me inhuman, I cannot an- 
swer you that way. For it would be the most 
cowardly of lies. It would be one of those lies 
one could swear to before the law. And behind 
it all, there would still be something unsaid, sim- 
ple yet different —confoundedly simple, ‘don’t 
you know? And that would be to answer: It 
happened, Mr. Gley. Daisy was my mistress — 
and then to take you at your word, to dismiss you 
and exult that the way is clear and to flatter my- 
self again with hope, like an old fool, that now 
that the young chap, the lover, the hance is out 
of the way, the impossible will come to pass. 
And one’s maddest wish would be granted. And 
can you be certain that you will not be up to these 
damnable tricks when you’re not over-clever. 
You don’t perceive, fool that you are, that the 
dream cannot last; that it must perish with dis- 
illusionment, regret and denunciation. Well, 
Edgar Gley, I loved your fiancé. I adored her. 
I wanted to break away from my wife. I loved 
Daisy — like a schoolboy. I didn’t keep my love 
a secret from her. I wrote verses to her — old 
Herbot, mind you, wrote verses, paced back and 
forth under her window, stole softly into her gar- 
den, threw his tender billets-doux, like Romeo, 
through the window — _ [Pauses suddenly as if 
something had just occurred to him.| Ah, now 
I see everything. Someone must have seen me. 
Someone must have spied me one night in the 
garden or perhaps in the wherry directly opposite 
the house.. But who can it have been? You've 
received anonymous letters: admit it. 


714 


THE BIG SCENE 








Epcar. That’s unimportant. Go on. 

Herzsotr. What else do you want to know? 

EpcGaAr. You made love to Daisy —and she 
quietly let you. 

Hersot. Let me —I can’t deny it. 

Epcar. Read your letters? [Herbot smiles. ] 
And replied to them? Please answer. 

Hersot. You will not begrudge me that, Mr. 
Gley. 

EpGar. Iam sorry. 

HERBOT [with the express purpose of discount- 
ing the truth of the words he is about to utter}. 
I possess nothing in writing — 

Epcar. Mr. Herbot, lies are lies. If you 
seek to mislead me regarding a minor detail, how 
do I know that the rest also — 

HeErBoT. Don’t persist in that belief. Let’s 
break off right here. 

Epcar. Impossible. 

Herpotr. Well, then, there’s nothing else I 
can do. Do as you please, Mr. Gley. I am en- 
tirely at your disposal — 

EpGar. You’ve gone too far to hold back 
now. I promise you that no one will learn the 
gist of this conversation — not even my fiancée. 
Don’t torture me any longer. You have my word 
of honor. 

Hersor [after a rapid pause, rummages in his 
pocket and extracts a letter]. WHere’s a letter 
from Daisy to me. [After an involuntary start 
of Edgar’s.| Allow me to read it. Later you 
can verify whether I have omitted a syllable. 
But it must be heard in the proper tone, other- 


75: 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








wise it might be misunderstood. [Reads.] 
“Conrad Herbot, I beg of you, go away.” 

Epcar. When was this written? 

HEeErRsBoT [showing date]. August 27th, A.M. 
[Reads.| ‘‘ Don’t bring unhappiness to people 
who have never wronged you. Do not forget, 
Conrad Herbot, what you’ve meant to me long 
before I ever knew you. Let that suffice. When 
I see you again on the stage in one of your glori- 
ous—” Ah, let’s skip that. “Never has a 
man of your sort—” Rather poignant, this! 
Miss Daisy simply means that she’s never had a 
man, about whom she used to read in the papers, 
make love to her. And so and so on. But 
please listen carefully. [Reads.] ‘‘ Remember 
that you have a fascinating wife who loves you 
and that I am engaged to one who loves me dearly 
and whose love I return. Yes, Conrad Herbot, 
I love him and I will never love anybody else. 
But you, Conrad Herbot, are perilous — that’s 
the only way I can express it. Sometimes I feel 
as if I hate you. I implore you to go away — 
please go away.” 

Epcar [taking the letter}. On the 27th and 
you went away —? 

Hersot. Several hours later. 

Epcar. And if you had stayed —? 

Hersot. Mr. Gley, I might have stayed with- 
out harm. Through this letter I first grew aware 
of my “ perilousness ” so called. Until then — 

Epcar. But you yourself just said that you 
intended to — 

HeErsBoT. Uproot you from Daisy’s heart? 
Yes. I don’t deny it. I was a fool. This let- 

76 


THE BIG SCENE 








ter brought me to my senses with a shock. “I 
will never love anybody else.” 

Epcar. But she wavered. This letter proves 
it beyond a doubt. She wavered between you and 
me. And it depended altogether on you — 

Hersor [interrupting]. Id believe that too, 
if I were still the fool today I was for about 
half an hour. She’s always been yours. But 
when it comes to fame — _ Ah, my young friend, 
you’ve no idea what a pretty dance that leads a 
young girl’s heart? We never know, we poor 
mortals, whether it is genuine passion or simply 
the fragrance of immortality wafting about us. 
Quite frankly, I envy the men who have never 
had to doubt whether they were loved for them- 
selves alone. Were I not Conrad Herbot, but 
the same as any other man —a landed proprietor 
from Klein-Reifling, for instance,— doubtless I 
should have appeared ridiculous to your fiancée. 
But Conrad Herbot went daft about her — and 
that touched her a bit. She realized quite clearly 
that she was Conrad Herbot’s last love, and I 
suppose a moment came when she almost be- 
lieved the emotion to be love. She’s not the 
first who’s felt that way. But guilty —if I may 
mention the word in the same breath with all this 
—I was guilty, I alone. It would never have 
gone as far as it did, not even up to the letters, 
if I'd been able to conceal my feelings. But that 
was beyond me. Like a fatality it swept over me. 

EpcAR. You intended to leave your wife, you 
said a moment ago. She went away before 
you — 

HERsoT [cutting in quickly]. Not on account 

idl 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








of the pipe-leak. You may rest assured of that. 
She went away because I was unable to cover up 
the true state of my emotions. I kept no secrets 
from her. She’s a wonderful woman. Directly 
upon receiving this letter and my flight from 
Daisy, I told her all about it. I begged her to 
come to me, to stand by me, to rescue me from 
utter despair. But she thought it unworthy to 
live with me so long as my heart was given to an- 
other. She wanted to come back only when I 
could write to her with a peaceful conscience that 
the last embers were extinguished. ‘Three days 
ago I found that I could write her that. She's 
been here since yesterday, and tomorrow old Her- 
bot will be in his home again. 

Epcar. Why didn’t she tell me all this? 

HerBot. Can’t you really guess, Mr. Gley, 
how near she was to doing it? How often the 
confession surged to her lips? J—TI have seen 
it. Thank God, it’s turned out differently. It 
would have been a terrible awakening for us all. 

Epcar. Why was she silent? 

HeErBot. Shall I tell you? Because, pos- 
sessing an instinct of refinement, she knew that 
that which externally appeared to you in the light 
of a confession was in reality a bald-faced lie. 
She never loved me, Mr. Gley. That must be 
apparent to you. Never. And I venture that 
you, Mr. Gley, may go through the wedding cere- 
mony with a more beautiful sense of security than 
many another young fellow who, as the saying is, 
has nothing with which to reproach his fiancée. 
Miss Daisy, as it were, has had her escapade. 
And, I am sure, that the day will come when she'll 


78 


THE BIG SCENE > 








tell it to you herself. She will tell it to you even 
before you lead her to the altar. And, if you 
wish to oblige me, wait until then. Don’t broach 
the subject yourself. [Seeing Edgar is silent. | 
How absurd of me! Of course you won’t be 
able to keep your lips locked that long. Of 
course you’re going to tell her everything. You'll 
tell her that I showed you the letter too — 

EpGAR [after cursorily glancing through it 
again, flings it into the fire.|_ Never, as sure as 
you see it burning to ashes! Of this letter noth- 
ing shall be said. And nothing shall be said of 
this visit of mine. 

HeERBoT. Don’t promise too much, Mr. Gley. 

Epcar [looks at him]. 1 promise no more 
than I think I can keep. Goodby, Mr. Her- 
bot. 

HeErzsotT. You've something else to ask me, 
Mr. Gley? 

Epcar [staring straight at him a long time]. 
Nothing whatever. [Impulsively extending his 
hand. | 

Hersot [almost genuinely|. Be good to her, 
Mr. Gley. Please be good to her. [Edgar 
goes. | 

[Herbot returns from the door with a serious 

expression at first, then a self-satisfied but 
not quite frivolous smile flits across his face. 
He glances at the clock. He makes a ges- 
ture indicating that there’s ample time yet. 
Rings. Bell-hop enters. | 

Hersot. Will you please ask my wife to 
come up? She’s in the lobby. [Bell-hop goes 
out. Sophie comes in from the left. ] 


19 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








HEeERBOT [turning round and catching sight of 
her]. Oh! you were — . 

SOPHIE. Yes, all the time. 

HeErRsot. But you promised me— _ Ah, I un- 
derstand. Perhaps it’s better so. I hope you 
are satisfied. 

SOPHIE. Quite. 

HerBot. It wasn’t easy, I assure you. At 
the outset I was seized with something like a first- 
night nervous fit. Though I wasn’t unprepared. 
I was weak at the beginning. 

SOPHIE. Well, you carried it off — 

HeErzot. But didn’t it come a cropper as I 
went along? You thought it quite different, dear- 
est, didn’t you? That I’d disavow everything? 
But only fools disavow, sane people — 

SOPHIE. Lie. 

Hersot. Lie? No, Sophie, don’t think it 
was unadulterated falsehood. Part of it was 
true. That’s the rare thing about it: the way the 
truth was interwoven with the falsehood. That's 
why it looked so plausible. Well, thank Heaven, 
we can breathe freely again. 

SOPHIE. You think—? Have you forgotten 
already? Suppose he should by chance learn the 
truth later — you know what he threatened to 
do. And he will learn the truth. It’s only de- 
ferred. 

Hersot. Nonsense! He'll never get at the 
truth. ‘That’s quite sure. 

SOPHIE. Sure? He'll talk to me. Don't 
fool yourself about that. And I daresay contra- 
dictions will crop up. 

80 


THE BIG SCENE 








HeErBoT. Contradictions? Why? 

SoPpHIE. Especially in the story about the let- 
ter. How will you explain away the trumped-up 
letter? : 

Hersot. Trumped-up? It was real. 

SoPHIE. The letter was real—? 

Hersot. Certainly it was. Daisy actually 
wrote it. But not on the 27th of August. On 
a 2nd. It was a simple matter to interpolate 
ne27 

SoPHIE. I don’t quite understand. 

Herzsot. But, sweetheart, it’s quite a simple 
matter. The contingency of some chatter-box 
gassing about us had to be taken into considera- 
tion. It seemed likely that an anonymous letter 
or something of the sort would come up. And 
so I arranged with Daisy what we would do if 
something like that happened. It was evident 
that a bare denial would not clear the air. And 
so this occurred to us to pull us through. 

SOPHIE. Ah, indeed. Very clever. Now 
I’m beginning to understand — 

Hersot. And the letter —I read it beauti- 
fully, did I not? It seemed as if created for the 
purpose — how shall I put it? — just to serve us 
with an alibi. 

SOPHIE. Extraordinary. 

Hersot. There are no other letters. Nor 
any other evidence of any shape. And, you may 
be sure, that Daisy will take care of her end of 
the affair. 

SOPHIE. We hope so. But I don’t think 
she'll come any way near you in that. 

81 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








Hersor. Maybe better. A girl of her 
sort— Trust women for that. They're born 
with the instinct. But, aside from that, don’t you 
think he was capital? 

SOPHIE. He? 

Herpotr. Edgar Gley. Surely he had the 
easier task. But shall I tell you something in 
confidence, Sophie? ‘There were moments when I 
was literally swept along and little else was needed 
ne I should have believed the whole story my- 
self. 

SoPpHIE. What story? 

HeErBot. Oh, you overheard it. Somewhere 
near the close of the scene. It seemed as if noth- 
ing, absolutely nothing had existed between the 
girl and myself. It was like a stroke of genius, 
you might say. [Falk comes in wearing his over- 
coat and carrying his hat in his hand. | 

Fak. Are you out of your mind? Here it is 
a quarter to seven! What’s the matter? 

Hersot. Do you think it takes me an hour 
to get into Hamlet’s togs? 

FaLK. Paragraph seven: “ All performers 
in the current production must be in their dressing 
rooms —’”’ Besides, the crown prince is going to 
be present. 

Hersor. Really, and the princess? 

Fark. And suite. 

Herzsot. Now, Sophie, what do you say to 
that? I can still draw the best people to the 
stalls even though he’s about disgusted them with 
his tomfoolery. Haven’t you gone and raised the 
price of seats? Later on over a pottle of Sec 
we'll talk seriously about the terms of my new con- 

82 


THE BIG SCENE 








tract. Particularly the clause referring to my 
leave of absence. In February we intend taking 
a trip to the Riviera. Isn’t that so, Sophie? 

FaLk. Are you or are you not going to — 

Hersot. Well, Sophie, get ready as quickly 
as you can. Today I’m going to play only for 
you. As far as I am concerned, let his Majesty 
or the Lord be present. 

Fak. I'll bet you wouldn’t be a bit surprised 
if the Lord came to Berlin expressly to witness 
your Hamlet. 

Hersot. If he came, he’d get a ticket to 
Rheinhardt’s. Don’t you think so? 

Fak. In any case, it would be in the pa- 
pers. 

Hersot [quickly caressing Sophie on the cheek 
and kissing her forehead|._ Addio. A rivederci! 
[ Takes his hat and overcoat and goes out. | 

FALK. He’s in fine spirits. You’re not quite 
as gay. You stand there for all the world like a 
piece of sculpture. What’s the matter? Scenes? 
Again? 

SOPHIE [motionless]. No, never again. Eyv- 
erything’s at an end. 

FALK [after a brief pause|. Well, aren’t you 
going to dress for the theatre? Auf wiedersehen. 

SopHIE. I’m not going to the theatre. I’m 
leaving. 

FaLk. What do you mean? 

SoPpHIE. ‘Tonight —in an hour. Everything 
is over and done with. 

FaLtk. What’s the matter? 

SOPHIE. I can’t tell you in a word. 

FaLk. Oh, I don’t want to appear too press- 


83 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








ing. I can do without the scene with the ghost, 
with Hamlet’s father I mean. But, if you still 
regard me as a friend — 

SopHIE. Why should I? [After a short 
pause.] Edgar Gley was here. 

FaLk. Oh! 

SopHIE. He wanted an explanation. My 
husband gave it to him. I was in the next room 
the whole time? I overheard everything. 

FaLk. Well? 

SOPHIE. I never suspected a man could lie that 
way. 

Fark. Did you think —? You ought to be 

lad. 

: SopHIE. The whole thing was preconcerted 
and planned between him and the girl. They 
anticipated it. And my husband told the young 
fellow a story about his being daft about the girl 
and that she was indifferent to his attentions. 
And the truth is, he visited her night after night 
by scaling the window. 

FaLk. Well, you couldn’t expect him to tell 
Mr. Gley that, could you? It’s much better to 
lie artfully in these affairs than not at all. 

SopHIE. You should have heard it. And he 
suspected nothing and was quite happy about it. 
Oh, if you had heard it you would now understand 
why it’s impossible for me to live one day longer, 
no, one hour with this man — 

FaLk. But where are you going? 

SOPHIE. How should I know? Away — 
away. 

FaLkK. Don’t you really know? 

SOPHIE. What? 


84 


THE BIG SCENE 





—S=— 


FaLk. Where you want to run away to. Or 
do you imagine — 

SOPHIE. If it were as you insinuate, do you 
think I would have needed a subterfuge to go? I 
am going to no one! I simply want to go away, 
and I want to be alone — for the rest of my life 
alone. 

FaLk. That'll never do. You must return in 
two weeks. I can’t give you a longer leave of 
absence than that. Our contract — 

SopHiz. How can you jest about it? Don’t 
you understand? It is over and done with for- 
ever. Nothing remains, nothing but nausea, no, 
horror, an overwhelming horror of it all. How 
can I go back to him? One can go back to a man 
when he has failed miserably, when he has com- 
mitted a crime, when he’s wounded somebody unto 
death; one can go back to one who is repentant 
and to one who is not repentant. But a man must 
recognize what he’s done. Herbot doesn’t recog- 
nize it. He doesn’t understand me and he doesn’t 
understand himself and he doesn’t understand 
anybody else. Love, hypocrisy, murder, every- 
thing which pervades reality is of no greater mo- 
ment to him than if he were playing one of his 
parts. He and I speak different tongues, and 
there is no longer an interpreting medium between 
us. If, from the depths of my despair I were to 
throw myself out of the window, it would merely 
be the end of an act for him. The curtain falls 
and he goes out for his ‘“‘ pottle of Sec.” A 
human being —he? A maddened harlequin, 
rather, who when occasion serves is also ready to 
play the human being. But no human being he — 


85 





COMEDIES OF WORDS 








no— [Sinks exhausted on the divan with her 
face buried in her hands. | 

FaLtk. Too bad. Too bad. 

SoPpHIE. Oh, your pity is superfluous now. 

FaLk. But, dear lady, it needn’t remain this 
way. How differently would this scene have 
touched you which he seems to have gone through 
with Mr. Gley, how little horrible, how much 
gayer, how glorious even would the scamp have 
appeared to you — 

SopHIE. If I had been worthy of him. 

Fatk. Naturally, you realize, that will never 
be —cannever be. In this case you remained the 
same Sophie throughout. One always remains 
the same. But you should have taken things in a 
lighter vein. Your incredible respectability is 
what brings the false note into your relation with 
Herbot. And carrying, as you do, this weight of 
respectability, you know in your heart that it can 
not help matters. If, for instance, you were mar- 
ried to a man of the type of Mr. Gley, a gentle- 
man,— to betray, as the phrase is, that sort of 
chap is indeed a detestable thing, because in the 
mind of the Mr. Gleys of the world an act of be- 
trayal is tremendously significant, undeserved and 
degrading. And very often it may drive the Mr. 
Gleys of the world to suicide. With the Herbots 
it’s another matter entirely. The Herbots pre- 
tend not to notice it. They pretend it even to 
themselves. Somehow they soon recover. 

SOPHIE. You speak like a sophist of the first 
water. 

FaLk. Only in the capacity of theatrical di- 
rector, I assure you. 


86 


THE BIG SCENE ° 








SOPHIE [smiling]. As regards theatrical mat- 
ters, | am, from now on, an outsider. Pardon 
me, I must pack. I don’t want him to find me 

ere. 

Fak. Seriously, are you leaving — today? 
Impossible. 

SOPHIE. Quite possible, believe me. 

FALK. But what am I to say to him? 

SopHIE. Tell him I was too affected by his 
scene with Mr. Gley to stomach Hamlet into the 
bargain. 

FaLtk. He'll never accept that. 

SopHIE. Well, then, tell him the truth— 
that — I — 

Fark. Love him. 

Sopuie. No, that I hate him. And that I 
will never — not as long as I live — 

FaLk. Hush! No oaths. One should never 
burn one’s bridges behind one. You see, one is 
put in a very embarrassing position trying to re- 
build them. 

SOPHIE [crossing over to the left]. Goodbye. 

Fark. I don’t want to keep you back any 
longer. Good luck, only if you were to ask my 
advice, don’t run away to utter solitude, but to 
something else — 

SOPHIE. Really, you are — 

FaLk. You're not forced to do anything, not 
even to come back, if you don’t care to. You can 
stay there. Perhaps that spells your lucky star. 
Ah, look down, Sophie. Look at the line-up of 
motors. Yes, I’m of the opinion that you should 
forgive him something. 

SoPHIE. I might, if I were a theatre director. 


87 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








ALK. You should, as a wife. It’s almost a 
sacred office for you. 

SOPHIE. Oho! 

FaLk. Forgive and—take your revenge. 
The latter in particular has a rumored sweetness 
about it. Well auf wiedersehen, Sophie; auf 
wiedersehen soon. [Answering her look.|  Per- 
haps in the Styrian woods. You know I’m invited 
to go hunting too. Or at least to play chess. A 
telegram is sufficient and I come, were it only to 
call for you and to escort you back to one who must 
be, do what you may, your inevitable choice. 
There are less noble men, Sophie— [The door 
in the rear opens and Herbot Strides into the 
room, clad in his Hamlet costume with a half-but- 
toned overcoat thrown over it. | 

Fark. What—? Are you mad? 

Herzsot. What’s the matter? Why are you 
taking so long, Sophie? I peeped through the 
slit in the curtain and didn’t see you in your box — 
[Sophie replies with a frozen stare. | 

FALK [goes up and takes him by the shoul- 
ders]. Now really, do you wish to— It’s five 
minutes after seven. 

Hersot. Let them wait! I won’t go on a 
fraction of a minute before Sophie is seated in her 
box. 

SoPHIE. But—but—TI haven't dressed yet. 

Hersot. I don’t care! Come with me as 
you are. 

Fak [to Herbot]. See that you get a move 
on quickly, do you hear? 

Herzsor. Sorry. But without her I don’t 
move an inch. I know. I know. She made 
88 


THE BIG SCENE 








up her mind not to come at all. She’s probably 
told you everything. Memories were raked up. 
But look at her, Falk. As she stands there she 
is like a ghost carved in marble. But come to 
me—come. The past is dead—stone dead. 
Don’t you understand that yet, dear? Try not 
to think of my former waywardness. What, 
after all, do my escapades with other women mat- 
ter? Why trouble about other people? I’ve 
never loved anybody but you. If you refuse to 
come, I won’t act. For all I care, our friend here 
may close down his theatre. 

FaLk. Six thousand four hundred Marks. 
Of course you can make that up, can’t you? 

Flerpor. Ihe nerve! [lf Elamlet~ were 
played by some one else, you wouldn’t have half 
the house you’ve got tonight. And if you, 
Sophie, are not in your box, I won’t act today, 
nor tomorrow — never again and farewell to the 
stage. [He flings the sword he’s been clutching 
from him. | 

FaLk [at the window]. There goes Her 
Highness. 

Hersot. A fig for Her Highness! Let her 
turn around and go back home, your Highness. 
There is but one High— [He is suddenly on 
his knee before Sophie. A Theatre Employee 
enters. | 

T. E. I beg your pardon, Herr Direktor. It 
is seven-ten. His Royal Highness —the audi- 
ence — 

Fak [to Employee]. Ring up the curtain. 

Herzsor [to Theatre Employee]. He says 
$o;<not=!. 


89 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








Fark. Ring up the curtain! [The Theatre 
Employee goes. | 

SOPHIE. Get up. 

Hersot. Are you coming? [Sophie does 
not reply audibly but the expression on her face 
answers in the affirmative. | 

Hersort [rising to his feet and putting his 
arm about her waist, he takes the sword which 
Falk has picked up.| ‘‘ Was ever woman in this 
humor wooed?” 

Fatx. That isn’t Hamlet. That’s Richard 
the Third. 

Hersor. Well then, arm in arm with you — 

Fak. That’s from something else. You 
will make a holy mess of the performance to- 
night. 

Hersot. Why must it be just from “ Ham- 
let”? [Pressing Sophie close to his side.| Isn't 
it a lofty line? 

Fark. Are you ready? [He thrusts them 
both through the door. The door for a moment 
affords a view in which the hotel guests, passing 
down the corridor, gaze astonished at the pair. 
Falk then turns the lights out, goes out and locks 
the door. | 


[CuRTAIN. ] 


go 


THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS 
A CoMEpDY OF Worps 
PERSONS 


FELIX STAUFNER, writer. 
AGNES, his wife. 

Dr. Guipo WERNIG. 

RAILWAY GUARD. 

WAITER. 

CasHIER (@ woman). 

Passengers and Station employes. 


The action takes place in the railroad waiting 
room of a large Austrian city in the mountains. 


[Scene: Station and restaurant. In the rear 
glass doors giving onto the platform. Right a 
stairway conducting downstairs. On the left 1s a 
buffet, with a clock above it. A number of tables, 
covered and uncovered, with chairs. A blackboard 
near the middle platform door, right. On the wall 
are time-tables, maps, posters. The cashier is busy 
behind the buffet. Several people are seated 
at the tables. The guard stands by the middle 
platform door, which is open. As the curtain 
rises the train has just come in. Passengers en- 
ter from the platform and pass through the 


gi 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








—= 
dining room on the right, using the steps. On 
the left Agnes and Guido are standing, almost 
motionless, with their eyes fixed intently on the 
door as if expecting someone. When the last 
of the passengers has passed through the wait- 
ing room, Guido steps up to the door and peers 
out on the platform. He makes a step as if 
to go out but is intercepted by the guard. 
Agnes in the meantime has also loitered up to 
the door. | 


Guipo. There’s no one else. 

AGNES. Strange! 

Guipo. Was that the Innsbruck train? 

[ The Guard locks the door. | 

GUARD. No, sir. 

Guipo. No? 

Guarp. That was the Bavarian express. 
The Innsbruck train is scheduled to arrive at 
§.20. 

Guipo. Why do you say “ is scheduled to ar- 
rive” 2 

Guarp. Because it’s almost always late. 
However, there has been no report yet. 

Guipo. You mean that it will arrive on 
time? 

Guarp. No, that it will be late. [Goes off 
left by the steps. ] 

Gu1po [glancing at the clock]. We have fully 
eight minutes before us. [Lights a cigarette. | 

Acnes. Eight minutes. [Comes down and 
seats herself at one of the tables. | 

[The Waiter approaches and hovers about. | 


g2 


THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS 








Guipo [after a brief pause to Agnes, standing 
behind her chair]. Agnes — 

AGNES. Guido —? 

Guino [seating himself beside her]. Wouldn't 
it be a better idea to — 

WAITER. Your order, sir? 

Guipo. Thank you. We have just had some- 
thing here. 

[Waiter, slightly piqued, shrugs his shoulders 

and goes off left. | 

Guipo. Wouldn’t it be better, I mean, if I 
waited for him alone? 

AGNES. Why this sudden change of mind? 
Have you completely lost faith in my determina- 
tion? Do you-think that I shrink from meeting 
him face to face — 

Guipo. No, no. I have the greatest confi- 
dence in you. But I repeat: it’s quite impossible 
eee how he’ll take the news. And that’s 
why — 

AGNES [rising fervently]. No. We've made 
up our minds. We'll wait for him together. In 
this way the situation will at once be made clear 
to him. And that in itself is a big advantage. 
No superfluous words will be necessary. It’s only 
fair to us—and to him. We owe him that 
much. Or, if you like, I at least owe it to him. 
[The whistle of a locomotive is heard. Agnes 
starts but does not turn. Guido rises. A rail- 
way employe comes from the platform, meticu- 
lously locks the door after him, and writes on the 
blackboard: “ Express No. 57 from Innsbruck 
—44 minutes late.’ He intercepts a woman 


93 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








with two children at the door and closes it again 
behind him. Guido and Agnes have not turned 
around. The whistle of the locomotive dies 
away. | 

nee [close to her]. Agnes, do you love 
me! 

AGneEs. I adore you. And you? 

Guipo. You know. [Hastily.] And in one 
hour all will be over. Bear that in mind. To- 
morrow we will be far away. Think of that when 
you face him. Together — forever! 

AGNES [somewhat mechanically|. Forever — 
[without looking round]. Wiasn’t it come in 
yet? 

Guipo [turning round]. The eight minutes 
are up. [The Guard re-enters. | 
ae [noticing the writing on the board]. 

AGNES [following his glance|. What is it? 

Guipo. Delay; forty-four minutes’ delay. 

GuarD. More likely an hour. 

Guipo. Here it is very plain, forty-four min- 
utes. Forty-four! I dare say that’s calculated to 
the dot. 

Guarp [coldly]. Oh, she may make it in less. 

[He goes over to the buffet, exchanges a few 

words with the cashier, and then goes off. 
Guido and Agnes stare at one another.| 

Guipo. That’s so. 

AGNES. One hour — 

Guipo. Let’s go outside a bit. 

AGNES. But it hasn’t stopped raining. But if 
you want to take a walk — I’ll wait for you here. 


94 





THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS 





I prefer to look at the illustrated papers. [JSits, 
taking up a newspaper. | 

[Guido approaches the buffet and sets his watch 

by the clock. | 

AGNES [gazing at him with a smile]. He must 
be pretty impatient, too, in his compartment. 

Guipo [returning to her]. How—do you 
mean, Agnes? 

AGNES. As you know, he telegraphed that 
he was coming from Stubai on the five-twenty 
train. I fancy he’s under the impression that I’m 
waiting for him after these six weeks of separa- 
tion, and that together we’ll take the train back 
to Seewalchen, to our villa. Well, I am waiting 
for him — only it isn’t quite as he imagined it. 

Guipo. It would be more agreeable to me if 
you'd refrain from going off on a sentimental jag 
this way. 

AGNES. Sentimental—? I? Would I be 
here, if I were sentimental? [Brief pause. ] 

Guipo [making conversation]. You’ve missed 
the six o’clock train anyway. 

AGNES. There’s another at seven. 

Guipo. Do you think he’ll take it? 

AGneEs. Why not? I'll beg him to— And 
if you know him at all, he’s the sort of man — 
[Breaking off.| He'll find everything at home 
as he left it. I’ve ordered Therese to prepare 
everything as if — 

Guipo. That wasn’t quite necessary. If he 
ever loved you he will never put foot into a house 
in which he lived with you for five summers — 
[ bitterly | and happily at that. 

AGNES. Yes, he will. He’s awfully fond of 


95 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








the little cottage and the landscape. At any rate, 
they haven’t changed. 

Guipo. I’m sure he won’t go back to it this 
year any more. 

AcneEs. If he’s wise, he’ll go right home and 
sleep there tonight. 

Guipo. In a house —alive with such mem- 
ories? 

AGNES [staring straight ahead of her]. Let's 
hope that he’s already started to forget me on the 
return trip. 

Guipo. Do you imagine that he will? 

AGNES. Well, isn’t it the best thing we can 
wish him? [She takes a newspaper again and 
pretends to be absorbed in it. | 

Guipo [eyeing Agnes, paces up and down, ad- 
justs his watch again, then stepping up to her]. 
We might take something. [Taps on the table, 
then takes a newspaper and flutters the leaves 
nervously, glancing all the while at Agnes, who 
seems quite absorbed in reading, calling petu- 
lantly:| Waiter. 

WalTER [appearing, still slightly piqued). 
Yes, sir. 

Guipo. Bring me— [To Agnes.] What'll 
you have? 

AGNES. It’s immaterial to me. 

Guipo. Well, bring two lemon sodas. 

AGNES. I prefer raspberry. [Waiter moves 
away. Pause. Guido fixes his eyes on Agnes.] 

AGNES [continuing to read; smiling]. Here's 
something about you. 

Guipo. About me? 

AGNEs. Yes. ‘Regatta at Attersee. First 


96 


THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS 








prize, Baron Ramming, yacht Storm; second 
prize, Dr. Guido Wernig, yacht Watersprite.” 

Guipo. Quite right. You see, such insignifi- 
cant nobodies like myself do get into the papers 
sometimes. Of course, only on corresponding in- 
significant occasions — and then they capture only 
second prize. 

AGNES. Next time it will be the first — on an- 
other See. 

Guipo. You’re very optimistic. But — isn’t 
it the hand of destiny? 

AGNES [with an inquiring glance]. ‘The sec- 
ond prize? 

Guipo. The delay, I mean. Once again you 
have enough time to think it over. [She beckons 
him to draw nearer.| Perhaps it isn’t so simple 
a thing as you imagine. When you’ve once been 
the helpmate of a great man, to become the wife 
of a quite ordinary doctor of chemistry — 

AGNES [interrupting him quickly]. In the first 
place, Guido, your factory in your particular line 
is quite as well known as the collected works of 
my husband. 

Guipo. What have I to do with the factory? 
My father founded it — managed it — I am only 
his son. 

AGNES. Besides, I didn’t fall in love with 
Felix because he was a great man, as you put it. 
Whoever heard of him when we were married? 

Guipo. But you foresaw it — 

AGNES. Foresaw it — yes. 

[Waiter comes with sodas. He places the 

glasses on the table. Agnes and Guido are 
silent. The Waiter moves away. Pause.| 


a1 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








Guipo. Why are you silent, Agnes? 

AGNES [staring straight ahead|. How mys- 
terious life is! Six weeks ago, no more than six 
weeks ago, I crossed the lake with him in the 
small steamboat — six weeks. I said good bye to 
him almost on this very spot. And how the world 
has changed in this short time! If he —if we 
had guessed that bright summer day — 

Guipo. Do you regret it, Agnes? If so, 
there is still time. 

AGNES [as if waking from a trance]. I re- 
gret nothing — nothing. All that has happaned 
was destined to happen. Don’t you know I real- 
ize that, Guido? And all that has happened 
points to our happiness together — and also to 
his. 

Guipo. His? 

AGNEs. I have no doubt he’ll thank me right 
off seeing I’ve given him back his freedom. Peo- 
ple of his sort — 

Guipo. “ People of his sort —” 

AGNes. Everything in life has its deeper 
meaning. It is well, it is perhaps profoundly nec- 
essary that he should from now on dwell in soli- 
tude. 

Guipo. In solitude—? What do you call 
solitude? 

feiss [looking up|. What do you mean by 
that: 

oe Nothing, but what you imagine your- 
self. 

AGNES. Don’t try to evade my question. 
You did the same once before in a similar circum- 
stance. 


98 


THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS 


Guipo. Howso? When? 

AGNES. On the train. 

Guipo. I’m sure my allusion is not beyond 
your surmise. The suspicion that not his play 
alone kept him in Stubaital six weeks, instead of 
the projected three, surely is not new to you to- 
day. You smile? 

AGNES. It’s a bit amusing to me the way 
you’re trying, very obviously, to make me jealous. 

Guipo. Far from it. But, if you'll pardon 
my saying it, I don’t see any sense in your seek- 
ing to surround your — your former husband with 
a kind of halo. He is every bit of a human be- 
ing. In certain respects he’s not a whit better 
than I and — 

AGNES [laughing]. And you — you wished to 
say. Very kind of you, I’m sure. 

Guipo. Don’t misunderstand me. 

AcNEs. Oh, I understand you perfectly. 
You want me to believe that Mademoiselle X — 

Guipo. Bianca Walter — 

AGNES. Whose postscript is on the picture 
post card, has contrived somehow to detain my 
husband — 

Guipo. You husband that was — Herr Felix 
Staufner. 

AGNES. Felix — 

Guipo. I’m not trying to convince you, I 
merely make the statement. 

AGNES. Without evidence you can prove noth- 
ing. Besides the truth will soon out. 

GuiIpo. How do you make that out? 

AGnEs. He will tell the truth. 

Guipo. In all probability you won’t have to 


99 








COMEDIES OF WORDS 








hear it. Aside from the fact that it is immaterial 
to you and that the moment my conjectures are 
confirmed you will be pleased. 

AGNES. I shall be quite happy over it. Need 
I tell you that? Nothing more desirable could 
happen to me than if he stepped off the train with 
Fraulein Bianca or somebody else. 

Guipo. I’m afraid, Agnes, that you con- 
oh life as too simple a thing. Mademoiselle 

AGNES. Bianca. 

Guipo. Will not accompany him. She will 
remain in Stubai for the present. 

AGNES. With her mother? 

Guipo. Why with her mother? Why bother 
about her mother? 

AGNES. Because her name, too, is on the pic- 
ture post card. However, I think we are doing 
the young lady an injustice and celebrating a lit- 
tle prematurely. Doubtless she is a respectable 
girl of good family. An admirer of my — my 
Felix Staufner, just like her mother. [She takes 
a card out of her purse and reads:| “ Isabella 
Walter and her daughter cannot omit the oppor- 
tunity of gratefully sending their heartfelt greet- 
ings to the wife of the master —”’ 

Guipo. A bit wordy. 

AGNEs. But very unsuspicious. 

Guipo. You carry the card about with you? 

AcnNEs. I had no time to put it away. 

Guipo. You have answered it, then? 

Acnes. Why not? It’s the last. It arrived 
four days ago. And it’s positively the last he’s 
written as my husband. 

100 


THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS 








[Guido makes as if to take the card; she makes 
a gesture of refusal and he seems hurt. | 

AGNES. Just one word. 

Guipo. What sort of word, if I may ask? 

AGNES. Auf wiedersehen. 

[Guido bites his lip. } 

AGNES. Well, doesn’t it seem proper? I 
didn’t write “ Auf gutes wiedersehen,” or “ Auf 
gliickliches wiedersehen,’ simply ‘‘ duf wieder- 
sehen.” 

Guipo. And did you write him letters, too, 
during this time? 

AGNES. Only one. 

Guipo. Well — well! 

Acnes. That was before there was anything 
between you and me; before that evening — when 
you suddenly appeared in my garden under my 
window — and called my name inthe dark. Yes, 
in this way one sometimes writes a farewell letter 
without suspecting it! How mysterious life — 
[Guido has taken the card in his hand and seems 
bent on crumpling it. | 

AGNES. What are you doing, Guido? 

Gurpo. You love him still. 

AGNES [earnestly]. No, Guido, I love no one 
but you. I have never loved anybody — not 
even Felix — as much as I love you. [Grasping 
his hand.| But I shall never cease [Jetting his 
hand go} to admire and to respect Felix Stauf- 
ner; to be spiritually akin to Felix Staufner, the 
writer. In a certain sense relations such as ex- 
isted between Felix and myself can never alter — 
never. The fact that we were married is of least 
importance. Even if I should never see him 

101 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 





= 


again, if we should remain miles and miles 
apart — 

GuIpo [interrupting]. Yes, if you would only 
remain miles and miles apart! Well and good. 
Then everything would be all right; then I’d have 
nothing to oppose to your spiritual relations. 
But, unfortunately, I can’t spend my life taking 
endless trips. I must be back in harness in the 
damned — 

AGNES. Certainly; I'd never permit you to 
give up your profession. You must work, even 
if it isn’t absolutely necessary. I don’t propose to 
take up with an idler. 

Guipo. I don’t intend to give up my profes- 
sion. But what’s to prevent my practicing it else- 
where? I'll speak to the governor. As it is, he’s 
been planning for sometime to establish a branch 
office in Germany or America. 

AGNES. Or Australia. 

Guipo. The farther the better. 

AGNES. Guido! 

Guipo. I simply can’t bear to have you meet 
your former husband again. 
~ AGNES [determined]. I shan’t permit you at 
the eleventh hour to violate all our stipulations. 
You know that Felix is not like other men — 

Guipo. Do you really believe that he won't 
find another — friend very soon? 

Acnes. A friend? No. Never. A_ mis- 
tress — certainly. And whether her name be 
Bianca or something else —I only hope that I'll 
be able to approve of his choice. 

Guipo. Why do you hope so? Do you in- 

102 





THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS 








tend to be friendly with the future mistress of your 
husband ? 

AGNES. If things should fall out so — 

Guipo. They will not fall out so. I wish to 
make clear to you that I desire to keep our home 
—as soon as our affairs are in order, and that 
will be soon, I trust — respectable. And I warn 
you that this — mind you, I don’t say uninterest- 
ing — partly dubious crowd of artists and actor- 
folk of both sexes who used to frequent your 
house, will not be welcome under my roof. 

AGNEs. As regards dubious affairs, you ought 
to — 

Guipo. That’s another matter entirely. A 
real passion explains, condones everything. And 
besides, your husband deserves his fate. 

AGNES. Oh! 

Guipo. A woman, I hold, must be guarded 
jealously like a priceless gem. One should never 
leave a young woman alone, wholly alone among 
a crowd of young people in summer —near a 
lake — 

AGNES. In spite of his doubts he trusted me. 
It’s all part and parcel of the paradox in his make- 
up. 
Guipo. A man doesn’t trust a woman whom 
he loves. He trembles for her. He fights for 
her. I shall never trust you. Even after we’ve 
lived together for years. Even if we should have 
children — and we will have children. I will al- 
ways be concerned about you. To make sure of a 
woman one must keep on insulting her. 

AGNES. But he never resorted to that. He 

103 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








was jealous oftener than you think. He was jeal- 
ous even of you. 

Guipo. Of me—! Well, I thought — 

AGNES. That was before he had the slightest 
grounds. Eventhen— How mysterious — 

Guipo. Life is. 

AGNES. We had scarcely spoken three times 
together. Naturally he said nothing, but I no- 
ticed that it was so. For the life of me, I 
couldn’t make it out. You were out sailing on 
the lake all day long — at the outset. Only in 
the evening did you venture to sit beside us on 
the hotel terrace and chatter all manner of non- 
sense which, to tell the truth, didn’t interest me the 
least bit. 

Guipo. Nonsense — why — 

AGNES. I only mean to say that everything 
was quite harmless in those early days. Admit 
that you didn’t trouble at all about me. The lit- 
tle Baroness Fellah meant more to you — and the 
Lord knows who else? But he saw it coming. I 
observed it in his glances. He suspected immedi- 
ately that you — that you only — 

Guipo. And still he left you to your own de- 
vices. Saw it coming and went away on a trip. 

AGNES. It’s a way with him when he’s greatly 
absorbed in a piece of work. Everything else is 
put aside. 

Guipo. And he fled [pointedly] to solitude. 

AGNEs [ignoring his innuendo]. At all events 
he stopped caring about people — that is, about 
people whom he loved. 

Guipo. Did he leave you alone often? 

AGnEs. Sometimes. But that was not the 

104 


> tess 


THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS 








worst. It was much more uncomfortable when he 
stayed at home and left me alone. When my 
voice had lost its caress, when I became, in a 
measure, paler, more shadowy than any being he 
ever created; when I felt myself snuffed out — for 
him — 

Guipo. For me — you will never be snuffed 
out — never, Agnes. 

Aenzs [as if waking from a trance|. Never, 
Guido! You will never leave me alone. You 
will never repair to solitude and forget me for 
days, weeks, at a stretch, as he’s done. It isn’t 
good to leave us women alone. You are right, 
Guido. It’s quite perilous—it’s— [For sev- 
eral minutes past there has been a commotion in 
the waiting room. Passengers come up the steps. 
The Guard enters from the right and goes to the 


\— platform door. | 


Guipo. What’s the matter? [Glancing at 
the clock above the buffet.| There’s still twelve 
minutes. [Guard opens the door. | 

AGNE. It seems as if — 

Guipo [ quickly to the Guard]. The Innsbruck 
train? 

GUARD. Yes, sir. 

Guipo. I thought you said it wouldn’t arrive 
before ten minutes yet —? 

GuARD. She’s made up a bit for lost time. 

Guipo [to Agnes]. Youare pale. Don’t you 
care to— [Passengers go through the waiting 
room to the platform outside. | 

AGNES [ passionately shaking her head]. Let 
us go out, don’t you think? 

Guipo. On the platform? 

105 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 





—_t 


AGNES. Yes. It’s better than waiting out 
here. I wish him to see us directly from the car 
window. 

Guipo._ I don’t know. 

AGNES. Come. [They start to go out on the 
platform. | 

Guarp. Platform tickets, please. 

Guipo. Good Lord! [Searching in_ his 
purse.| Here. [Offers the Guard money. | 

GUARD. Over there, at the ticket machine. 

Guipo. But the train will be in by that time. 

GuarRD. There’s lots of time yet. 

Guipo [goes to the ticket machine, deposits a 
few coins and yanks the lever in vain]. It doesn’t 
work. 

GUARD [going over to the machine, tries to 
manipulate the lever, fails, then shakes his head]. 
Don’t work sometimes. 

Guipo. But we'll — 

Guarp. Ah, there you are. It’s all right 
now. [Hands two tickets to Guido. Back to 
the door which he has previously closed and now 
reopens.| Here she comes now. [Noise of an 
incoming train. | 

AGNEs. Your hand, Guido. [Hand in hand 
they go through the doorway onto the plat- 
form. As they pass out Felix appears on the 
right, mounting the steps. He spies Agnes, 
makes as if to follow, observes almost simultane- 
ously that she is not alone and is just in time to 
see her disappear hand in hand with Guido on 
the platform. He remains standing a moment. 
Then makes a step towards them. At the plat- 
form door he pauses again. Then he strides to 

106 





THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS 








the other platform door and seems to be follow- 
ing with his eyes the pair of them as they go to 
meet the incoming train. He steps back, passes 
his hand over his forehead and peers through the 
glass door. The pair vanish out of sight. The 
train has already stopped and the passengers pour 
in from the platform. Most of them pass 
through the waiting room to the steps on the 
right. Several take seats at the tables; several 
step up to the buffet and order refreshments. Fe- 
lix advances to the center of the stage. The 
stream of passengers rushes by him. He feels he 
must get out of their path, so he steps back again 
to the open platform door. He looks for Agnes 
and Guido. Gazing intently out, he watches 
them. Then, as if fearing to be observed, he 
drops back. On his face there is depicted com- 
plete understanding of the situation. Answering 
a sudden implse to escape, he hurries to the steps 
on the right. He remains standing there a mo- 
ment, shakes his head and hastens again to the 
closed platform door, peering out. The last of 
the passengers are leaving the platform. Mov- 
ing away from the door Felix comes to the front 
in an attitude of suspense, with his face contorted 
into a smile. Then, growing serious again, he 
seats himself at a table on the right, the same, in 
fact, at which Agnes and Guido had sat before. 
Mechanically he picks up a newspaper and glances 
above it in the direction of the platform door. 
The Guard has already shut the door. He opens 
itagain. First there enters a belated woman with 
a multiplicity of hand bags, then a station official, 
and lastly Guido and Agnes. They do not at first 
107 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








discover Felix, who is intrenched behind his news- 
paper. | 

Guipo. Amazing — 

Aenes. Is there another train today? 

Guipo. Let’s have a look at the time-table. 
[They go to the time-table on the wall next to the 
steps. Guido studies it carefully.| Nine — 
twelve — no, that’s not from Innsbruck. If we 
could only find out somehow. Just wait — 

FELIX [putting the newspaper aside, rises and 
strides quickly toward Agnes and Guido, who are 
studying the time-table. For a space he stands 
motionless behind her. He speaks suddenly in 
an unsuspecting, joyous tone.| Well, here you 
are, Agnes. [Agnes turns around, likewise 
Guido, but they utter no word. | 

FELIX [overlooking the awkwardness of the sit- 
uation very quickly]. You see, I came up on the 
earlier train, at noon. Unfortunately I couldn't 
telegraph you in time. It was a sudden whim of 
mine. I awoke somewhat earlier this morning. 
My things were all packed. So I said to myself: 
‘* Suppose you take the first train and loaf about 
Salzburg for several hours.’’ I’m glad to see you, 
Agnes — glad to see you. [Wrings her hand.] 
How d’ye do, doctor? What are you doing 
here? En route for Vienna? [Extends his 
hand.| Your vacation’s over, I suppose. 

Guino [hesitatingly taking the proffered hand]. 
No, I’m not going to Vienna. I was glad to 
escort your — your wife permitted me to — and, 
really — [Agnes casts an anxious glance at him, 
which is not lost on Felix. ] 

FELIx [quickly interrupting]. Very good of 

108 


THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS 








you, doctor. My wife loves to chat. Very kind 
of you, doctor, to keep her company. When one 
has taken the trip thirty or forty times the beau- 
ties of nature grow banal. [Suddenly.] But 
Agnes, let me look at you. We haven’t seen 
each other for such an age. Six weeks! I don’t 
recollect our ever having been parted so long 
during the five years we’ve been married. Isn’t 
that so? 

AGNES. You're looking very well, Felix. 

Fetix. Am I? Well, I hope so. And you, 
too. Why, you seem to have grown a little 
stouter. And you’re sunburnt, quite sunburnt. 
You were out in the open a good deal, weren’t you? 
And then the weather was simply glorious. But 
today —of course. It was very nice of you to 
come to meet me. 

AGNES. But you asked me to. 

FeLIx. I simply wanted to let you know. I 
didn’t reckon on it for a moment. Besides, it’s 
two and a half hours from Seewalchen to here. 
And you had to change, too. Take it any way 
you like, it’s a trip — even with the doctor’s pleas- 
ant company. 

Guipo. As regards my accompanying your 
wife, allow me — 

AGNES [interrupting, suddenly to Felix]. You 
were here, then, at twelve? What have you done 
until now? 

Fevix. [Il tell you presently. [Indicating 
the table.| Won't you join me — I’ve a tremen- 
dous hankering for a cup of coffee. And you? 
Or have you already had some? Waiter! 
Waiter! What was that you asked a moment 

109 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 





et | 


ago? How passed the time? Well, as it was 
dinner time, I dined in town, of course — very 
well, too—at the Nurnberg. [Sits.] Well, 
doctor, won’t you joinus? [Agnes sits. | 

Guipo [with a meaningful glance at Agnes]. 
I don’t really know whether— You see, I 
have — 

FELIX [quickly]. No ceremony, doctor. 
Please. [To waiter who approaches.| Let us 
have some—[to Agnes] —coffee, eh? And 
what'll you have, doctor? 

Guipo [who has taken a seat in response to a 
wink of Agnes]. I have just — 

AGNES [quickly to waiter}. Three mélanges, 
please. [Waiter is about to go. | 

Fevix. I'll have mine a bit strong. And, by 
the way, have you still got that coffee cake you had 
six weeks ago? It was delicious. 

AGNES. You remember it still? 

Feix. You liked it, too. [To the waiter.] 
Well, bring us some coffee cake with the coffee. 
[Waiter goes. | 

FELIx. Now — what were we talking about? 
Oh, yes. I dined at the Nurnberg and then I 
loafed about town — 

AGNES. In the rain? 

Berix, Ah; I didnt mind: it: the: least. bit. 
Coming upon the sultriness of the morning it was 
a veritable godsend. Then, you see, I called on 
Sebastian Schwartz for half an hour. 

AGnes [by way of explanation to Guido]. 
That’s the antique dealer, you know. 

FeLix. You aren’t interested in antiques, I 
presume, doctor? 





I1O 


THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS 








Guipo. I don’t understand enough about 
them. But — 

FELIx [quickly to Agnes]. He has lots of 
beautiful things. Some of them quite expensive. 

AGNES. And I suppose you untied your purse- 
strings liberally again. 

Fevix. Not much. I’ve already had several 
things sent on to Seewalchen to the villa. A 
nampulla such as we’ve wanted for a long time. 

AGNES. For the dining room? 

Fevix. Yes, of course. Certainly you can 
hang it in the dining room if you wish. And then 
I bought a lovely amulet. Baroque. Genuine. 
Aqua marine with a little silver chain — wait until 
you see it. I have it here in my purse. But, tell 
me, when did you arrive? At four, I take it? 

AGNES. No, I dined in town, too. 

Guipo. We had dinner here, too. 

AGNES [resuming]. We ate at the station 
and — 

FELIX [ quickly]. And loafed about town until 
now. Curious, isn’t it, that we didn’t meet? 

Guipo. We took a drive. 

AGNES. Considering the bad weather — the 
doctor was very kind— [Waiter brings coffee, 
etc. Felix, moving back his chair, causes the table 
and glasses to tremble. Waiter is somewhat 
taken aback. Guido seems to hesitate a moment, 
then, with nervous haste, he does likewise. Felix 
stirs his coffee. The waiter goes off with the news- 
papers. | 

Guipo [with sudden determination]. Mr. 
Staufner, I must ask — 

FELIx [quickly]. But drink your coffee, old 

Pit 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








man. And let me enjoy mine while I may. 
Then, if it suits you, you may ask my indulgence 
to whatever you please. I find tiffin the nicest 
refreshment of the day. I can do without my 
dinner, but never without my afternoon coffee. 

Guipo. Mr. Staufner, you asked me a moment 
ago whether I was going to Vienna. Well — 

FELIX [quickly]. Excuse my having asked. I 
noticed the effect on you was painful. I don’t 
want to have appeared indiscreet. What you 
have decided to do with the rest of your vacation 
is clearly a personal matter. Enjoy life as long 
—andsoon. Aren’t you going to take over the 
management of the Hollenstein factory when your 
father is ready to retire — 

Guipo. My father is quite robust. He has 
no intention of retiring from business. [He en- 
deavors to exchange glances with Agnes who, how- 
ever, avoids his look. | 

FELIx. How old is he, if I may ask? 

Guipo. Sixty-two. But as I said — 

Fevix. In any case, the main burden will soon 
fall to your shoulders. So enjoy life as long as 
you may. And above all things else, travel. 

AcneEs. ‘The doctor has traveled considerable. 
He’s already been to America. 

Guipo. Yes, I’ve been to South America. 

FeELIx. Indeed. To South America. And 
do you know Japan at all? 

Guipo. No, I don’t know Japan. 

FeLix. Japan has lured me for ever so long. 
Don’t you feel like going there too, Agnes? 

AcNEs. ‘There are many places not so far. 

FeLix. What of that? Do you expect to 

112 


THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS 








travel round the world inch by inch? It can’t be 
done. What kind of a hat are you wearing, 
Agnes? 

AGNES. You know it. 

Fevix. The red band is kind of new to me. 

AGNES. Yes, it is new. 

FELIX. Quite a summer hue. It glows and 
sparkles. [He repeats the phrase, but almost in 
an uncontrollable threatening tone of voice.| It 
glows and sparkles. 

[ Agnes gazes at him in terror and shoots a sud- 
den glance at Guido. Guido involuntarily 
assumes a dignified posture. | 

Fevix [glancing up, in a gentler tone]. You 
are not interested in women’s hats, I presume, 
doctor? 

Guipo [as if perceiving an opportunity to fasten 
his fangs]. Not generally. But I am interested 
in this one, Mr. Staufner. And not only — 

[Agnes looks at him frightened. | 

Fexix. Not only in the hat, but also, the 
wearer. That goes without saying. I am too, 
doctor. Naturally the hat would be a matter of 
indifference to both of us if, say, it hung over there 
on that hook. 

GUARD [entering and calling out]. Passenger 
train to Schwannemarkt, Bocklabruck, Atnang, 
Linz, Vienna. 

Guipo [pushing back his chair as if to rise]. 
Mr. Staufner — 

FELIx. Oh, yes. That’s your train. If you 
intend going back to Seewalchen you'll have to 
make aconnection. [To Agnes, who looks at him 
quite confused.| You thought it was ours, too? 


1 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








No, it is not ours, Agnes. I understand fully, 
doctor — this attraction to the field of your tri- 
umph. Yes, your triumph — [laughing loudly]. 
My cordial wishes are perhaps a little tardy at 
this moment. 

Guipo [taken aback]. How—? [Agnes 
gazes at Felix, not understanding. | 

FELIx. You — [pause] — won— at the Re- 
gatta, didn’t you? 

Guipo [involuntarily heaving a sigh of relief |). 
Oh, thank you. It was only the second prize. 

AGNES [likewise relieved|. How do you come 
to know about it? 

FELIx. Why, it’s in the newspaper. 

AGNES. You read the sporting page now- 
adays? Since when? 

Feiix. Not all of it. But news about See- 
walchen, for obvious reasons, interested me. 
Moreover, it was on the train, where one reads 
everything, even one’s railway ticket. [To 
Guido.] Have you been interested in yachting 
very long? 

GuIpo. Quite a number of years. On Oster- 
see mostly in the past. 

Fetix. On Binnensee, I imagine, it’s more dif- 
ficult. 

Guipo. Not necessarily. 

FeLix. Unfortunately, I know nothing about 
it. 

Guipo. I suppose you haven’t taken up sport, 
Mr. Staufner ? 

FELix. Oh, yes—yes. Mostly of a tourist 
character. I climb a good deal. In Stubai I ne- 
gotiated several trails. 


114 


THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS 








Acnes. Alone? 

Fevix. The big ones, yes. On the little ones 
I had a party along. Two ladies — mother and 
daughter. The young lady kept up very nicely 
on foot. 

AGNES. Miss Bianca Walter —? 

FeLtix. How do you—? Why, 

AcNEs. I hazard the guess he s_ blond. 
That’s your favorite color. 

Feuix. Of course, she’s blond. Would you 
care to know more about her? She’s a young 
actress just beginning her career. She played 
something for me once—The Jungfrau von 
Orleans. 

AGNES. Very nice. 

FELIx. It was, indeed. By the bye, I should 
have her picture somewhere about me. 

AGNES. Her picture? You have her picture 
about you —? 

Fevix. Yes. [He takes it out of his breast 
pocket.| She gave it to me before I left. The 
first chance I get I’d like to show it to a manager. 
She wants ever so much to get a position in 
Vienna. She imagines it only needs a word from 
me. These women certainly are naive! The 
mother wasn’t bad-looking, either. 

AGNES. Isabella. 

Feix. Isabella? Why, yes, of course. Isa- 
bella was the mother’s name. 

AGNES. And the daughter’s Bianca. 

FELIx. Isabella was the mother’s name and 
the daughter’s Bianca. Sounds like a ballad al- 
most. [Yo Guido.] Don’t you think so? 

Guipo [icily]. I’m no judge. 

115 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








AGNES. But I thought you had no intention of 
making any acquaintances there, and that you were 
going to devote yourself exclusively to your work? 

FELIx. Oh, appearances to the contrary, I was 
quite assiduous. You will be quite satisfied with 
me, I think. 

AGNES [with an effort]. Have you finished? 

FELIx. Finished? Not quite. 

AGNES. Under the circumstances little else 
was to be expected. 

FEeLIx. How malevolent you can be, Agnes! 
No reason for it —at all. When luck’s on my 
side, as you know, I can get through in three or 
four days. Only I need your advice. 

AGNES [joyful in spite of herself]. My — 
advice? 

Feiix. Yes, without equivocation. First, I’d 
like to talk it over with you. I'll also read you as 
much as I have. So let’s not take the train back 
to Seewalchen for the present. Until I have 
cleared up everything I don’t care to go back. 
And here in Salzburg, I know from previous ex- 
perience I can work extraordinarily well. ‘That’s 
why we'll stay here for a few days. 

AGNES. We’re going to stay here? That’s 
rather new to me. 

FeLIx. To me, also. I simply mean that the 
idea struck me on the train. You're with me in 
this, aren’t you? We’ve only got to telegraph to 
good old Therese, asking her to send you what- 
ever you need — absolute necessities. Of course, 
some superfluous things, too. And whatever for 
the present you’re urgently in want of we can pur- 
chase today. Or have you, by chance, in response 

1:6 


THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS 








to some secret presentiment, brought your little 
crocodile purse with you? 

Guipo [as if sensing the underlying meaning. 
Externally unruffled, but without malice]. I put 
os crocodile purse in my suitcase, thinking it safer 
there. 

Fevix. Indeed? Capital! Then everything 
is in ship-shape. And you’re glad to stay on, 
aren’t you, Agnes? The three days, I promise 
you, will pass quickly. All difficulties will be sur- 
mounted — and before we return to our little 
country house I shall put the finishing touch to — 
[he hesitates |—‘‘ The Festival of Bacchus.” 

AGNEs [taken by surprise]. ‘‘ The Festival of 
Bacchus ”? 

FEeLIx. Yes; why these wide eyes of wonder- 
ment ? 

AGNES. You're writing “The Festival of 
Bacchus ”’? 

BELIX. Ys. 

AGNES. But you started out with quite a dif- 
ferent purpose. 

FELIX. Quite right. But, soon after, on the 
way to Stubaital, it flashed upon me, before any- 
thing else, I must do “‘ The Festival of Bacchus.” 
There are good and sufficient reasons for 
ous change. It was conditioned by mysterious 
aws. 

Guipo. Yes, life is very mysterious. 

Fevix. Life—no. Not more than ordina- 
rily so. But art is. Yes, art is most— A 
thing of this sort is leavened within. It matures 
deep in the recesses of self. [Indicating his fore- 
head.| Here one knows nothing about it. So 


117 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








itis. [Breaking off in another tone.| Two acts, 
as I said, are finished. Only in the third act I 
find I’m up against it, and no thoroughfare. 
Well, you’ll hear it and, I have no doubt, some- 
thing suggestive will occur to you. 

AGNES. If you think so— [The waiter has 
appeared. | 

FELIX [noticing him]. Oh, yes. Well—? 

Guipo. Mine was a mélange — 

Fevix. What a notion, doctor? [The wait- 
er.| Three mélanges and three portions of cof- 
fee cake. 

Guipo. Four —I had two. 

FEIx [laughing]. Ah, yes; four then. 

Walter. _ Five. 

FELIX... iver 

AGNES. You crumbled one. 

; Fei: “Oh, id I? Keally?” Well} then, 
ve. 

Walter. Two crowns, 40 pfennig. 

FELIx [counting]. Very well. 

WaITER [discreetly to Guido]. And then 
there were two lemon sodas. 

Guipo. Ah, yes. [Js about to pay.] 

FeLIx [noticing Guido’s attempt|. What is 
that? Ah, yes? ([Gaily.] Please, please. [Js 
about to pay.] 

Gu.Lpo. I insist — 

FELIX. Please let me. Two sodas. Here 
youare. [Pays. Waiter goes. Felix extracts a 
cigarette case from his pocket and offers Guido a 
cigarette. | 

Guipo [falteringly helping himself to a ciga- 
rette|. Thanks. 

118 


THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS 








[Felix offers him a light and then proceeds to 

light his own. | 

Guipo. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must 
be going. 

FELIX. Good day, doctor, and a pleasant jour- 
ney to you — whatever route you decide to take. 

Guipo. Thanks. Good bye, my dear Mrs. 
Staufner. [Not yet dées he dare to extend his 
hand.| I trust soon —T[overjoyed at the sudden 
idea |— perhaps I shall have the pleasure of see- 
ing you again at the premiere of your husband’s 
new play — 

AGNES. I shall be pleased — 

FeLIx. You're in no way bound to attend, 
doctor. 

Guipo. Notrouble atall. You see, I’ve never 
missed one of your first nights yet. So, naturally, 
I shall not fail to be present at the opening of 
‘The Festival of Bax —” 

Fetix. Bacchus, doctor. 

Guipo. I beg your pardon. 

FELIx. It’s not a mythological play, as ap- 
pears from the title, neither is it in verse, if such 
things scare you away. 

Guipo. Not at all. 

FeLix. The title is only used metaphorically, 
of course. If I attempted to put ona real Festival 
of Bacchus, I’d have no end of trouble with the 
censor, as you can imagine. 

Guipo. I’m ashamed to confess that I don’t 
know what a Festival of Bacchus is. 

FELIX. Really? The Festival of Bacchus 
was a quaint custom of the ancient Greeks —a 
religious custom, you might say. 


119 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 





= 





Guipo. A—religious custom? 

FELIX [with marginal lilt and brevity]. Yes. 
A night was set aside once a year at the season of 
the vintage, if I err not, when men and women 
were granted unlimited freedom after a fashion — 

Guipo. Unlimited freedom — 

FELIx [very cool, merely informative]. After 
a fashion. On this night of nights all family 
ties, all prescriptive laws were dissolved. Men, 
women, and girls departed from their homes at 
sundown — homes whose peace they had sur- 
rounded and protected — and repaired to a sacred 
grove (there were many such groves in the land) 
to celebrate under the sheltering wing of night the 
divine festival — 

Guipo. The divine festival — 

Fevix. The divine festival. 

Guipo. Under the wing of night. 

FELIx. Yes. 

Guipo. And supposing the moon shone? 

Fetix. That did not matter. At daybreak — 
the festival was over, and every participant was 
pledged to forget with whom he celebrated his 
share of the divine festival. Pledged in all honor. 
That was a part of the religious custom — just as 
the celebration itself. To recognize one another 
afterward would have been considered in bad taste, 
as being, indeed, frivolous. And, as the saying 
runs, the votaries of the gods, somewhat tired and 
yet refreshed, in a measure even purified, wended 
their way home. 

Guipo. And at home one had an exciting 
theme for discussion ready to hand — until the 
next festival. 

120 


THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS 








Fetix. At home nothing was allowed to be 
said about the festival. ‘There’d be no sense in 
that. There was as little individual responsibility 
for the experiences of that night —as there is for 
dreams. 

Guipo. But didn’t it sometimes happen that a 
couple who had found themselves together in a 
sacred grove, had no desire to escape from one 
another’s sight so soon—and neither of them 
showed up at home? 

FeLIx. That was impossible. The penalty 
for that was death. 

AGNES. Death —? 

FELIx. Yes, death. They had to part when 
the sun rose. ‘The ritual in this respect was very 
strict. 

Guipo. You say the penalty was death —? 

Fe.ix. To be exact, there was an extenuating 
circumstance. 

Guipo. Ah! 

FELIX [with emphasis]. When two people 
who had found themselves together under the 
wing of night yearned for one another still on 
the following night—this happened less fre- 
quently than one imagines — no one was allowed, 
neither husband nor wife nor father nor mother, 
to stand in their way. And these two met again 
on the same spot where they had parted in the 
morning. But from the second night — and here 
we must really marvel at the wisdom of the priests 
— from this second night, which was no longer 
a festival to the god there was no asylum. Their 
former home was closed to them and they were 
for the remainder of their days dependent on one 

121 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 











ae 


another. That is why so very few cared to leave 
their homes on the second night. [Pause. ] 

Guipo. You've looked up the mythology of 
it pretty thoroughly for your comedy, Mr. Stauf- 
ner. 

FELIx. It wasn’t necessary. If you were to 
investigate you would discover that my version 
doesn’t correspond exactly. For, as I said, the 
Festival of Bacchus is but a symbol suitable to my 
purpose. My play is set in the present, and the 
present lacks several things which makes the re- 
vival of such a beautiful, simple and pure celebra- 
tion as the ancient Festival of Bacchus, impossible. 
People have grown too irreligious. Instead of 
experiencing the natural naturally, they befog 
things with their pedantic psychology. Now- 
adays Festivals of Bacchus are no longer possible 
because our love-life is murky, yes, poisoned by 
lies and self-deception, by jealousy and fear, by 
insolence and remorse. Only occasionally — and 
this but in pious souls — there is kindled a faint 


or still more brilliant reflection of the marvelous - 


magic which once pervaded the Festival of 
Bacchus. And this magic is perhaps of a higher 
order than the other. But who of us can glory 
in his own piety? Who of us—? 

Guarp [entering]. Express to Freilassing, 
Rosenheim, Munich, Paris — 

FeLix [in an altered tone of voice]. Isn't 
that your train, doctor? 

Guipo [surprised]. My train—? 

Acnes. For Paris. Of course it’s your train, 
doctor. 

Guipo. Well let it be— And now I must 

ep) 


THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS 











see about my baggage. Dear Mrs. Staufner — 
[Agnes gives him her hand. Guido hesitates a 
moment, then kissesit. He bows to Felix. Felix 
extends his hand. Guido takes it hurriedly, then 
goes down the steps. Pause. Commotion. 
SctaeaG pass out to the platform with porters, 
élc. 

AGNES [looking at him, after a long pause]. 
And what kind of a reflection is that? 

[Felix looks at her as if he did not quite follow 
her meaning. | 

AGNES. ‘The reflection in pious souls which 
you just mentioned, which to you signifies a loftier 
magic than the marvelous festival itself — this 
festival which according to you is no longer cele- 
brated nowadays? 

FELIX [almost crudely]. This magic is called 
— forgetting. But we don’t believe in that, you 
andl. 

AGNEs. You may be right. There may, how- 
ever, be another which is easier to believe in. 
[Felix gives her a questioning look. | 

AGNES. Understanding. [She has the picture 
in her hand and crushes it. Felix laughs curtly. | 

Guipo [entering from the right with two hand- 
bags. He steps up to the table|. Pardon me, 
since it was most convenient to check both bags 
on one ticket — I — 

AGNEs [anxiously]. Thank you, very much. 
Please put it here. 

Guipo. Don’t mentionit. [He places Agnes’ 
handbag on the chair which he previously occu- 
pied. | 

FELIX [rising suddenly]. Dr. Wernig — 

123 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 





)—- 





Guipo [comprehending, with great dignity]. 
If it is your pleasure, Mr. Staufner, I can likewise 
put off my departure. 

AGNES [quickly, with determination]. You 
will depart on this train, Guido. 

[Felix looks at her. Guido stands irresolute. 
Pause. | 

FELIx. You may go! [Guido bows and goes 
out on the platform. | 

FELIX [sits. His face is contorted. Then he 
rises again, as if to follow Guido. Agnes re- 
strains him by grasping his arm. Felix reseats 
eke Agnes tears Bianca’s picture into small 

its. 

FELIX [bitterly]. If this were all! 

AGNES [with a ghost of a smile]. We must be 
pious, both of us. 

Feix [in a sudden hollow tone of voice]. 1 
hate you! 

Acngs. And I hate you a thousand times more 
bitterly — [with a new expression of tenderness | 
— my lover! 

[CuRTAIN. ] 


124 


OTHER PLAYS 


LITERATURE 


A PLay INONE ACT 
PERSONS 


MARGARET. 
CLEMENT. 
GILBERT. 


[ScENE: Moderately well, but quite inex- 
pensively furnished apartments occupied by 
Margaret. A small fireplace, a table, a small 
escritoire, a settee, a wardrobe cabinet, two 
windows in the back, entrances left and right. 

As the curtain rises, Clement, dressed in a 
modish, tarnished-gray sack suit, is discovered 
reclining in a fauteuil near the fireplace. He 
is smoking a cigarette and perusing a news- 
paper. Margaret is standing at the window. 
She walks back and forth, finally goes up di- 
rectly behind Clement, and playfully musses his 
hair. Evidently she has something trouble- 
some on her mind. | 


Crem. [Reading, seizes her hand and kisses 
ét.] Horner’s certain about his pick and doubly 
certain about mine; Waterloo five to one; Barom- 
eter twenty-one to one; Busser! seven to one; At- 
tilla sixteen to one. 

Maroc. Sixteen to one! 

127 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 





Ciem. Lord Byron one and one-half to one 
— that’s us, my dear. 

Mare. I know. 

Cem. Besides, it’s sixteen weeks yet to the 
Handicap. 

Mare. Evidently he looks upon it as a clean 
“runaway.” 

Ciem. Not quite —but where did you pick 
up your turf-lingo, Brava? 

Marc. Oh, I used this kind of talk before I 
knew you. Is it settled that you are to ride Lord 
Byron yourself? 

CLEM. How absurd to ask! You forget, it’s 
the Damenpreis Handicap. Whom else could I 
get to ride him? And if Horner thought for a 
moment that I wasn’t going to ride him, he’d never 
put up one and a half to one. You may stake all 
you’ve got on that. 

Marc. I’m well aware of that. You are so 
handsome when you mount a horse — honest and 
truly, too sweet for anything! I shall never for- 
get that day in Munich, when I first made your 
acquaintance — 

CLEM. Please do not remind me of it.’ I had 
rotten luck that day. But you can believe me, 
Windy would never have won if it weren’t for tite 
ten lengths he gained at the start. But this time 
—never! You know, of course, it is decided; 
we leave town the same day. 

Marc. Same evening, you mean. 

Crem. If you will — but why? 

Marc. Because it’s been arranged we’re to be 
married in the morning, hasn’t it? 

CLEM. Quite so. 





128 


LITERATURE 








Marc. I am so happy. [Embraces him.] 
Now, where shall we spend our honeymoon? 

Ciem. I take it we’re agreed. Aren’t we? 
On the estate. 

Marc. Oh, of course, later. Aren’t we go- 
ing to take in the Riviera, as a preliminary tidbit? 

Crem. As for that, it all depends on the 
Handicap. If we win — 

Marc. Surest thing! 

Crem. And besides, in April the Riviera’s 
not at all good ton. 

Mare. Is that your reason? 

CLeM. Of course it is, my love. In your 
former way of life, there were so few opportuni- 
ties for your getting a clear idea of fashion — 
Pardon me, but whatever there was, you must 
admit, really had its origin in the comic journals. 

Marc. Clem, please! 

CLEM. Well, well. We'll see. [Continues 
reading.| Badegast fifteen to one — 

Marc. Badegast? There isn’t a ghost of a 
show for him! 

Crem. Where did you get that information? 

Mare. Szigrati himself gave me a tip. 

Crem. Where — and when? 

Marc. Oh, this morning in the Fredenau, 
while you were talking with Milner. 

Crem. Now, look here; Szigrati isn’t fit com- 
pany for you. 

Marc. Jealous? 

Crem. Notatall. Moreover, let it be under- 
stood that from now on I shall introduce you 
everywhere as my fiancée. [Margaret kisses 
him. | 

129 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








CieEM. Now, what did Szigrati say? 

Marc. That he’s not going to enter Badegast 
in the Handicap at all. ? 

Ciem. Well, don’t you believe everything 
Szigrati is likely to say. He’s circulating the ru- 
mor that Badegast will not be entered so that the 
odds may be bigger. 

Marc. Nonsense! That’s too much like an 
investment. 

Crem. So you don’t believe there is such a 
thing as investment in this game? For a great 
many it’s all a commercial enterprise. Do you 
think that a fellow of Szigrati’s ilk cares a fig for 
sport? He might just as well speculate on the 
market, and wouldn’t realize the difference. Any- 
way, as far as Badegast is concerned, one hundred 
ie one wouldn’t be too much to put up against 

im. 

Marc. Really? I found him in first-rate fet- 
tle this morning. 

Ciem. Then you saw Badegast, too? 

Marc. Certainly. Didn’t Butters put him 
through his paces, right behind Busserl? 

CLEeM. But Butters isn’t riding for Szigrati. 
He was only a stableboy. Badegast can be in as 
fine fettle as he chooses — it’s all the same to me. 
He’s nothing but a blind. Some day, Margaret, 
with the aid of your exceptional talent, you will 
be able to distinguish the veritable somebodies 
from the shams. Really, it’s remarkable with 
what proficiency you have, so to speak, insinuated 
yourself into all these things. You go beyond my 
expectations. 

130 


LITERATURE 








Mare. [chagrined]. Pray, why do I go be- 
yond your expectations? All this, as you know, 
isnot sonewtome. At our house we entertained 
very good people — Count Libowski and people 
of that sort — and at my husband’s — 

CLEM. Quite so. No question about that. 
As a matter of principle, you realize, I’ve no 
grudge against the cotton industry. 

Marc. Even if my husband happened to be 
the owner of a cotton mill, that didn’t have to ef- 
fect my personal outlook on life, did it? I al- 
ways sought culture in my own way. Now, don’t 
let’s talk of that period of my life. It’s dead and 
buried, thank heaven! 

Crem. Yes. But there’s another period 
which lies nearer. 

Marc. I know. But why mention it? 

CLEM. Well, I simply mean that you couldn’t 
possibly have heard much about sportsmanship 
from your friends in Munich — at least, as far as 
I am able to judge. 

Marc. Ido hope you will stop tormenting me 
about those friends in whose company you first 
made my acquaintance. 

Crem. Tormenting you? Nonsense! Only 
it’s incomprehensible to me how you ever got 
amongst those people. 

Marc. You speak of them as if they were a 
gang of criminals. 

Crem. Dearest, I’d stake my honor on it, 
some of them looked the very picture of pickpock- 
ets. Tell me, how did you manage to do it? I 
can’t understand how you, with your refined 


131 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








taste — let alone your purity and the scent you 
used —could have tolerated their society. 
How could you have sat at the same table with 
them? 

Mare. [laughing]. Didn’t you do the same? 

Crem. Next to them —not with them. And 
for your sake—merely for your sake, as you 
know. To do them justice, however, I will ad- 
mit that many bettered upon closer acquaint- 
ance. ‘There were some interesting people among 
them. You mustn’t for a moment believe, dear- 
est, that I hold myself superior to those who hap- 
pen to be shabbily dressed. That’s nothing 
against them. But there was something in their 
conduct, in their manners, which was positively 
revolting. 

Marc. It wasn’t quite so bad. 

CiemM. Don’t take offense, dear. I said there 
were some interesting people among them. But 
that a lady should feel at ease in their company, 
for any length of time, I cannot and do not pretend 
to understand. 

Marc. You forget, dear Clem, that in a sense 
I’m one of them — or was at one time. 

CLEM. Now, please! For my sake! 

Marc. They were artists. 

Crem. Thank goodness, we’ve returned to the 
old theme. 

Marc. Yes, because it hurts me to think you 
always lose sight of that fact. 

Crem. Lose sight of that fact! Nonsense! 
You know what pained me in your writings — 
things entirely personal. 

Marc. Let me tell you, Clem, there are 

rae 


LITERATURE 








women who, in my situation, would have done 
worse than write poetry. 

CLEM. But what sort of poetry! What sort 
of poetry! [Takes a slender volume from the 
mantel-shelf.| That’s what repels me. I assure 
you, every time I see this book lying here; every 
time I think of it, I blush with shame that it was 
you who wrote it. 

Marc. That’s why you fail to understand — 
Now, don’t take offense. If you did understand, 
you'd be quite perfect, and that, obviously, is im- 
possible. Why does it repel you? You know I 
didn’t live through all the experiences I write 
about. 

Ciem. I hope not. 

Marc. The poems are only visions. 

Crem. That’s just it. That’s what makes 
me ask: How can a lady indulge in visions of 
that character? [Reads.] ‘‘ Abandoned on thy 
breast and suckled by thy lips ” [shaking his 
head|. How can a lady write such stuff — how 
can a lady have such stuff printed? That’s what 
I simply cannot make out. Everybody who reads 
will inevitably conjure up the person of the author- 
ess, and the particular breast mentioned, and the 
particular abandonment hinted at. 

Marc. But, I’m telling you, no such breast 
ever existed. 

Crem. I can’t bring myself to imagine that it 
did. That’s lucky for both of us, Margaret. But 
where did these visions originate? These glowing 
passion-poems could not have been inspired by 
your first husband. Besides, he could never ap- 
preciate you, as you yourself always say. 


i335 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








Marc. Certainly not. That’s why I brought 
suit for divorce. You know the story. I just 
couldn’t bear living with a man who had no other 
interest in life than eating and drinking and cotton. 

Ciem. I dare say. But that was three years 
ago. ‘These poems were written later. 

MArRG. Quite so. But consider the position 
in which I found myself — 

CLEM. What do youmean? You didn’t have 
to endure any privation? In this respect you must 
admit your husband acted very decently toward 
you. You were not under the necessity of earn- 
ing your own living. And suppose the publishers 
did pay you one hundred gulden for a poem — 
surely. they don’t pay more than that — still, you 
were not bound to write a book of this sort. 

Marc. I did not refer to position in a ma- 
terial sense. It was the state of my soul. Have 
you a notion how — when you came to know me 
— things were considerably improved. I had in 
many ways found myself again. But in the be- 
ginning! I was so friendless, so crushed! I 
tried my hand at everything; I painted, I gave 
English lessons in the pension where I lived. Just 
think of it! A divorcee, having nobody — 

CieM. Why didn’t you stay in Vienna? 

Marc. Because I couldn’t get along with my 
family. No one appreciated me. Oh, what peo- 
ple! Did any one of them realize that a woman 
of my type asks more of life than a husband, 
pretty dresses and social position? My God! 
If I had had a child, probably everything would 
have ended differently — and maybe not. I’m not 
quite lacking in accomplishments, you know. Are 


134 


LITERATURE 








you still prepared to complain? Was it not for 
the best that I went to Munich? Would I have 
made your acquaintance else? 

CLEM. You didn’t go there with that object 
in view. 

Marc. _ I wanted to be free spiritually, I mean. 
I wanted to prove to myself whether I could suc- 
ceed through my own efforts. And, admit, didn’t 
it look as if I was jolly well going to? I had 
made some headway on the road to fame. 

CiemM. H’m! 

Marc. But you were dearer to me than fame. 

CLEM [good-naturedly]. And surer. 

Marc. I didn’t give it a thought. I suppose 
it’s because I loved you from the very start. For 
in my dreams, I always conjured up a man of your 
likeness. I always seemed to realize that it 
could only be a man like you who would make me 
happy. Blood—jis no empty thing. Nothing 
whatever can weigh in the balance with that. You 
see, that’s why I can’t resist the belief — 

Crem. What? 

Marc. Oh, sometimes I think I must have 
blue blood in my veins, too. 

CiemM. How so? 

Marc. It’s not improbable? 

Crem. I’m afraid I don’t understand. 

Marc. But I told you that members of the 
nobility were entertained at our house — 

CLieM. Well, and if they were? 

Marc. Who knows — 

Ciem. Margaret, you’re positively shocking. 
How can you hint at such a thing! 

Marc. I can never say what I think in your 


135 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








presence! That’s your only shortcoming — 
otherwise you would be quite perfect. [She 
smiles up to him.] You've won my heart com- 
pletely. That very first evening, when you walked 
into the café with Wangenheim, I had an immedi- 
ate presentiment: this is he! You came among 
that group, like a soul from another world. 

CLem. I hope so. And I thank heaven that 
somehow you didn’t seem to be altogether one of 
them, either. No. Whenever I call to mind that 
junto —the Russian girl, for instance, who be- 
cause of her close-cropped hair gave the appear- 
ance of a student — except that she did not wear a 
cap — 

Marc. Baranzewitsch is a very gifted painter. 

Crem. No doubt. You pointed her out to 
me one day in the picture gallery. She was stand- 
ing on a ladder at the time, copying. And then 
the fellow with the Polish name — 

Mare. [beginning]. Zrkd — 

CLem. Spare yourself the pains. You don’t 
have to use itnow any more. He read something 
at the café while I was there, without putting him- 
self out the least bit. 

Marc. He’s a man of extraordinary talent. 
I'll vouch for it. 

Crem. Oh, no doubt. Everybody is talented 
at the café. And then that yokel, that insuffer- 
able — 

Marc. Who? 

CLem. You know whom I mean. That fel- 
low who persisted in making tactless observations 
about the aristocracy. 

Marc. Gilbert. You must mean Gilbert. 

136 


LITERATURE 








Crem. Yes. Of course. I don’t feel called 
upon to make a brief for my class. Profligates 
crop up everywhere, even among writers, I under- 
stand. But, don’t you know it was very bad taste 
on his part while one of us was present? 

Marc. That’s just like him. 

Criem. I had to hold myself in check not to 
knock him down. 

Marc. In spite of that, he was quite interest- 
ing. And, then, you mustn’t forget he was raving 
jealous of you. 

Crem. I thought I noticed that, too. 
[ Pause. | 

Marc. Good heavens, they were all jealous 
of you. Naturally enough — you were so unlike 
them. They all paid court to me because I 
wouldn’t discriminate in favor of any one of them. 
You certainly must have noticed that, eh? Why 
are you laughing? 

CLEM. Comical —is no word for it! If some 
one had prophesied to me that I was going to 
marry a regular frequenter of the Café Maxmil- 
lian —I fancied the two young painters most. 
They’d have made an incomparable vaudeville 
team. Do you know, they resembled each other 
so much and owned everything they possessed in 
common — and, if I’m not mistaken, the Russian 
on the ladder along with the rest. 

Marc. I didn’t bother myself with such 
things. 

Crem. And, then, both must have been Jews? 

Marc. Why so? 

Crem. Oh, simply because they always jested 
in such a way. And their enunciation. 


137 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








Marc. You may spare your anti-Semitic re- 
marks. 

CLtemM. Now, sweetheart, don’t be touchy. I 
know that your blood is not untainted, and I have 
nothing whatever against the Jews. I once hada 
tutor in Greek who was a Jew. Upon my word! 
He was a capital fellow. One meets all sorts and 
conditions of people. I don’t in the least regret 
having made the acquaintance of your associates 
in Munich. It’s all in the weave of our life ex- 
perience. But I can’t help thinking that I must 
have appeared to you like a hero come to rescue 
you in the nick of time. 

Marc. Yes, so you did. My Clem! Clem! 
[Embraces him.] 

Crem. What are you laughing at? 

Marc. Something’s just occurred to me. 

CLeEM. What? 

Marc. ‘ Abandoned on thy breast and —” 

CLeM. [vexed]. Please! Must you always 
shatter my illusions? 

Marc. Tell me truly, Clem, wouldn’t you be 
proud if your fiancée, your wife, were to become 
a great, a famous writer? 

Crem. I have already told you. Iam rooted 
in my decision. And I promise you that if you 
begin scribbling or publishing poems in which you 
paint your passion for me, and sing to the world 
the progress of our love — it’s all up with our 
wedding, and off I go. 

Marc. You threaten — you, who have had 
a dozen well-known affairs. 

Crem. My dear, well-known or not, I didn’t 
tell anybody. I didn’t bring out a book whenever 

138 


LITERATURE 








a woman abandoned herself on my breast, so that 
any Tom, Dick or Harry could buy it for a gulden 
and a half. ‘There’s the rub. I know there are 
people who thrive by it, but, as for me, I find it 
extremely coarse. It’s more degrading to me than 
if you were to pose as a Greek goddess in flesh- 
colored tights at Ronacher’s. A Greek statue like 
that doesn’t say ‘“‘ Mew.” But a writer who 
makes copy of everything goes beyond the merely 
humorous. 

Mare. [nervously]. Dearest, you forget that 
the poet does not always tell the truth. 

Crem. And suppose he only vaporizes. Does 
that make it any better? 

Marc. It isn’t called vaporizing; it’s “ dis- 
tillation.” 

CiemM. What sort of an expression is that? 

Marc. We disclose things we never experi- 
enced, things we dreamed — plainly invented. 

Crem. Don’t say “ we” any more, Margaret. 
Thank goodness, that is past. 

Marc. Who knows? 

CLEM. What? 

Mare. [tenderly]. Clement, I must tell you 
all. 

Crem. What is it? 

Marc. It is not past; I haven’t given up my 
writing. 

Crem. Why? 

Marc. I’m still going on with my writing, or, 
rather, I’ve finished writing another book. Yes, 
the impulse is stronger than most people realize. 
I really believe I should have gone to pieces if it 
hadn’t been for my writing. 

139 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








Crem. What have you written now? 

Marc. A novel. The weight was too heavy 
to be borne. It might have dragged me down — 
down. Until today, I tried to hide it from you, 
but it had to come out at last. Kiinigel is im- 
mensely taken with it. 

Crem. Who’s Kiinigel? 

Marc. My publisher. 

CieM. Then it’s been read already. 

Marc. Yes, and lots more will read it. 
Clement, you will have cause to be proud, believe 
me. 
Crem. You're mistaken, my dear. I think — 
but, tell me, what’s it about? 

Marc. I can’t tell you right off. The novel 
contains the greatest part, so to speak, and all that 
can be said of the greatest part. 

Crem. My compliments! 

Marc. ‘That’s why I’m going to promise you 
never to pick up a penany more. I don’t need to. 

Crem. Margaret, do you love me? 

Marc. What a question! You and you only. 
Though I have seen a great deal, though I have 
gadded about a great deal, I have experienced 
comparatively little. I have waited all my life 
for your coming. 

CLem. Well, let me have the book. 

Marc. Why—why? What do you mean? 

Crem. I grant you, there was some excuse in 
your having written it; but it doesn’t follow that 
it’s got to be read. Let me have it, and we'll 
throw it into the fire. 

Marc. Clem! 

140 


LITERATURE 








Ciem. I make that request. I have a right 
to make it. 

Marc. Impossible! It simply — 

Crem. Why? If I wish it; if I tell you our 
whole future depends on it. Do you understand? 
Is it still impossible ? 

Marc. But, Clement, the novel has already 
been printed. 

CLeEM. What! Printed? 

Marc. Yes. Ina few days it will be on sale 
on all the book-stalls. 

Crem. Margaret, you did all that without a 
word to me —? 

Marc. I couldn’t do otherwise. When once 
you see it, you will forgive me. More than that, 
you will be proud. 

Crem. My dear, this has progressed beyond 
a joke. 

Marc. Clement! 

Crem. Adieu, Margaret. 

Marc. Clement, what does this mean? You 
are leaving? 

Crem. As you see. 

Marc. When are you coming back again? 

Cxiem. I can’t say just now. Adieu. 

Marc. Clement! [Tries to hold him back.] 

Crem. Please. [Goes out.] 

Marc. [alone]. Clement! What does this 
mean? He’s left me for good. What shall I 
do? Clement! Is everything between us at an 
end? No. Itcan’tbe. Clement! I'll go after 
him. [She looks for her hat. The doorbell 
rings.] Ah, he’s coming back. He only wanted 


I4I 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








to frighten me. Oh, my Clement! [Goes to the 
door. Gilbert enters. | 

Git. [to the maid]. I told you so. Ma- 
dame’s at home. How do you do, Margaret? 

Make. [astonished]. You? 

Git. It’s I—I. Amandus Gilbert. 

Marc. I’m so surprised. 

Git. So I see. There’s no cause for it. I 
merely thought I’d stop over. I’m on my way to 
Italy. I came to offer you my latest book for 
auld lang syne. [Hands her the book. As she 
does not take it, he places it on the table. | 

Marc. It’s very good of you. Thanks! 

Git. You have a certain proprietorship in 
that book. So you are living here? 

Marc. Yes, but — 

Git. Opposite the stadium, I see. As far as 
furnished rooms go, it’s passable enough. But 
these family portraits on the walls would drive me 
crazy. 

Marc. My housekeeper’s the widow of a gen- 
eral. 

Git. Oh, you needn’t apologize. 

Marc. Apologize! Really, the idea never 
occurred to me. 

Git. It’s wonderful to hark back to it now 

Marc. To what? 

Git. Why shouldn’t I say it? To the small 
room in Steinsdorf street, with its balcony abut- 
ting over the Isar. Do you remember, Mar- 
garet? 

Marc. Suppose we drop the familiar. 

Git. As you please —as you please. [ Pause, 

142 


LITERATURE 








then suddenly.| You acted shamefully, Mar- 
garet. 

Marc. What do you mean? 

Git. Would you much rather that I beat 
around the bush? I can find no other word, to 
my regret. And it was so uncalled for, too. 
Straightforwardness would have done just as 
nicely. It was quite unecessary to run away from 
Munich under cover of a foggy night. 

Marc. It wasn’t night and it wasn’t foggy. 
I left in the morning on the eight-thirty train, in 
open daylight. ; 

Git. At all events, you might have said good- 
bye to me before leaving, eh? [Sits.] 

Marc. I expect the Baron back any minute. 

Git. What difference does that make? Of 
course, you didn’t tell him that you lay in my arms 
once and worshipped me. I’m just an old ac- 
quaintance from Munich. And there’s no harm 
in an old acquaintance calling to see you? 

Marc. Anybody but you. 

Git. Why? Why do you persist in misun- 
derstanding me? I assure you, I come only as an 
old acquaintance. Everything else is dead and 
buried, long dead and buried. Here. See for 
yourself. [Indicates the book.] 

Marc. What’s that? 

Git. My latest novel. 

Marc. Have you taken to writing novels? 

Git. Certainly. 

Marc. _ Since when have you learned the trick? 

Git. What do you mean? 

Marc. Heavens, can’t] remember? Thumb- 


143 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








nail sketches were your specialty, observation of 
daily events. 

Git. [excitedly]. My specialty? My spe- 
cialty is life iteclf. I write what suits me. I do 
not allow myself to be circumscribed. I don’t see 
who’s to prevent my writing a novel. 

Marc. But the opinion of an authority was — 

Git. Pray, who’s an authority? 

Marc. _ I call to mind, for instance, an article 
by Neumann in the ‘‘ Algemeine ”»— 

Git. [angrily]. Neumann’s a blamed idiot! 
I boxed his ears for him once. 

Marc. You— 

Git. Inefigy— But you were quite as much 
wrought up about the business as I at that time. 
We were perfectly agreed that Neumann was a 
blamed idiot. ‘‘ How can such a_ numbskull 
dare”’— these were your very words —“ to set 
bounds to your genius? How can he dare to stifle 
your next work still, so to speak, in the womb?” 
You said that! And today you quote that literary 
hawker ! 

Marc. Please do not shout. My _house- 
keeper — 

Git. I don’t propose to bother myself about 
the widows of defunct generals when every nerve 
in my body is a-tingle. 

Marc. What did I say? I can’t account for 
your touchiness. 

Git. Touchiness! You call me_ touchy? 
You! Who used to be seized with a violent fit 
of trembling every time some insignificant booby 
on some trumpery sheet happened to utter an un- 
favorable word of criticism. 


144 


LITERATURE 








Marc. I don’t remember one word of un- 
favorable criticism against me. 

Git. H’m! I dare say you may be right. 
Critics are always chivalrous toward beautiful 
women. 

Marc. Chivalrous? Do you think my poems 
were praised out of chivalry? What about your 
own estimate — 

Git. Mine? I’m not going to retract so much 
as one little word. I simply want to remind you 
that you composed your sheaf of lovely poems 
while we were living together. 

Marc. And you actually consider yourself 
worthy of them? 

Git. Would you have written them if it 
weren't for me? They are addressed to me. 

Marc. Never! 

Git. What! Do you mean to deny that they 
are addressed to me? This is monstrous! 

Marc. No. They are not addressed to 
you. 

Git. Jam dumbfounded. Shall I remind you 
of the situations in which some of your loveliest 
verses had birth? 

Marc. They were inscribed to an Ideal — 
[Gilbert points to himself |— whose representa- 
tive on earth you happened to be. 

Git. Ha! This is precious. Where did you 
get that? Do you know what the French would 
say in a case like that? ‘‘ C’est de la littera- 
ture!” 

Mare. [mimicking him]. Ce n’est pas de la 
littérature! Now, that’s the truth, the honest 
truth! Or do you really fancy that by the “ slim 


145 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








boy’ I meant you? Or that the curls I hymned 
belonged to you? At that time you were fat and 
your hair was never curly. [Runs her fingers 
through his hair. Gilbert seizes the opportunity 
to capture her hand and kiss it.]._ What an idea! 

GIL. At that time you pictured it so; or, at 
all events, that is what you called it. To be sure, 
a poet is forced to take every sort of license for 
the sake of the rythm. Didn’t I once apostro- 
phise you in a sonnet as “my canny lass”? In 
point of fact, you were neither — no, I don’t want 
to be unfair — you were canny, shamefully canny, 
perversely canny. And it suited you perfectly. 
Well, I suppose I really oughtn’t wonder at you. 
You were at all times a snob. And, by Jove! 
you’ve attained your end. You have decoyed 
your blue-blooded boy with his well-manicured 
hands and his unmanicured brain, your matchless 
horseman, fencer, marksman, tennis player, heart- 
trifler — Marlitt could not have invented him 
more revolting than he actually was. Yes, what 
more can you wish? Whether he will satisfy you 
— who are acquainted with something nobler — 
is, of course, another question. I can only say 
that, in my view, you are degenerate in love. 

Marc. That must have struck you on the 
train. 

Git. Not at all. It struck me this very mo- 
ment. 

Marc. Make a note of it then; it’s an apt 
phrase. 

Git. I’ve another quite as apt. Formerly 

ou were a woman; now you're a “ sweet thing.” 

Yes, that’s it. What attracted you to a man 


146 


LITERATURE 








of that type? Passion— frank and filthy pas- 
sion — 

Marc. Stop! You have a motive — 

Git. My dear, I still lay claim to the posses- 
sion of a soul. 

Marc. Except now and then. 

Git. Please don’t try to disparage our former 
relations. It’s no use. They are the noblest ex- 
periences you’ve ever had. 

Marc. Heavens, when I think that I endured 
this twaddle for one whole year I — 

Git. Endure? You were intoxicated with 
joy. Don’t try to be ungrateful. [’mnot. Ad- 
mitting that you behaved never so execrably at the 
end, yet I can’t bring myself to look upon it with 
bitterness. It had to come just that way. 

Marc. Indeed! 

Git. I owe you an explanation. This: at the 
moment when you were beginning to drift away 
from me, when homesickness for the stables 
gripped you — /a nostalgie de l’écurie — at that 
moment I was done with you. 

Marc. Impossible. 

Git. You failed to notice the least sign in 
your characteristic way. I was done with you. 
To be plain, I didn’t need you any longer. What 
you had to give you gave me. Your uses were 
fulfilled. In the depths of your soul you knew, 
unconsciously you knew — 

Marc. Please don’t get so hot. 

Git. [unruffled|. That our day was over. 
Our relations had served their purpose. I don’t 
regret having loved you. 

Mare. I do! 

147 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








Git. Capital! This measly outburst must re- 
veal to a person of any insight just one thing: the 
essential line of difference between the artist and 
the dilettante. To you, Margaret, our liaison 
means nothing more than the memory of a few 
abandoned nights, a few heart-to-heart talks in 
the winding ways of the English gardens. But J 
have made it over into a work of art. 

Marc. _ So have I! 

Git. Eh? What do you mean? 

Marc. I have done what you have done. J, 
too, have written a novel in which our relations 
are depicted. I, too, have embalmed our love — 
or what we thought was our love — for all time. 

Git. If I were you, I wouldn’t talk of “ for 
all time’’ before the appearanec of the second 
edition. 

Marc. Your writing a novel and my writing 
a novel are two different things. 

Git. Maybe. 

Marc. You area freeman. You don’t have 
to steal your hours devoted to artistic labor. And 
your future doesn’t depend on the throw. 

Git. And you? 

Marc. That’s what I’ve done. Only a half 
hour ago Clement left me because I confessed to 
him that I had written a novel. 

Git. Left you — for good? 

Marc. I don’t know. But it isn’t unlikely. 
He went away in a fit of anger. What he'll de- 
cide to do I can’t say. 

Git. So he objects to your writing, does he? 
He can’t bear to see his mistress put her intelli- 
gence to some use. Capital! And he represents 

148 


LITERATURE 








the blood of the country! H’m! And you, 
you're not ashamed to give yourself up to the arms 
of an idiot of this sort, whom you once — 

Marc. Don’t you speak of him like that. 
You don’t know him. 

Gir. Ahi 

Marc. You don’t know why he objects to 
my writing. Purely out of love. He feels that 
if I go on I will be living in a world entirely apart 
from him. He blushes at the thought that I 
should make copy of the most sacred feelings of 
my soul for unknown people to read. It is his 
wish that I belong to him only, and that is why 
he dashed out — no, not dashed out — for Clem- 
ent doesn’t belong to the class that dashes out. 

Git. Your observation is well taken. In any 
case, he went away. We will not undertake to 
discuss the tempo of his going forth. And he 
went away because he could not bear to see you 
surrender yourself to the creative impulse. 

Marc. Ah, if he could only understand that! 
But, of course, that can never be. I could be the 
best, the faithfulest, the noblest woman in the 
world if the right man only existed. 

Git. At all events, you admit he is not the 
right man. 

Mare. _ I never said that! 

Git. But you ought to realize that he’s fet- 
tering you, undoing you utterly, seeking through 
egotism, to destroy your inalienable self. Look 
back for a moment at the Margaret you were; at 
the freedom that was yours while you loved me. 
Think of the younger set who gathered about me 
and who belonged no whit less to you? Do you 


149 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








never long for those days? Do you never call 


to mind the small room with its balcony — _ Be- 
neath us plunged the Isar— [He seizes her 
hand and presses her near. | 

Marc. Ah! 


Git. All’s not beyond recall. It need not be 
the Isar, need it? I have something to propose 
to you, Margaret. Tell him, when he returns, 
that you still have some important matters to ar- 
range at Munich, and spend the time with me. 
Margaret, you are so lovely! We shall be happy 
againasthen. Do you remember [very near her | 
‘“* Abandoned on thy breast and —” 

Marc. [retreating brusquely from him]. Go, 
go away. No, no. Please go away. I don’t 
love you any more. 

Git. Oh, h’m — indeed! Oh, in that case I 
beg your pardon. [Pause.] Adieu, Margaret. 

Marc. Adieu. 

Git. Won’t you present me with a copy of 
your novel as a parting gift, as I have done? 

Marc. It hasn’t come out yet. It won't be 
on sale before next week. 

Git. Pardon my inquisitiveness, what kind of 
a story is it? 

Marc. The story of my life. So veiled, to 
be sure, that I am in no danger of being recog- 
nized. 

Git. Isee. How did you manage to do it? 

Marc. Very simply. For one thing, the her- 
Oine is not a writer but a painter. 

Git. ‘Very, clever: 

Marc. Her first husband is not a cotton 
manufacturer, but a big financier, and, of course, 

150 


LITERATURE 





it wouldn’t do to deceive him with a tenor — 

Git, Hal Tag! 

Marc. What strikes you so funny? 

Git. So you deceived him with a tenor? I 
didn’t know that. 

Marc. Whoever said so? 

Git. Why, you yourself, just now. 

Marc. How so? I say the heroine of the 
book deceives her husband with a baritone. 

Git. Bass would have been more sublime, 
mezzo-soprano more piquant. 

Marc. Then she doesn’t go to Munich, but 
to Dresden; and there, has an affair with a sculp- 
tor. 

Git. That’s me — veiled. 

Marc. Very much veiled, I rather fear. 
The sculptor, as it happens, is young, hand- 
some and a genius. In spite of that she leaves 
him. 

Git. For — 

Marc. Guess? 

Git. A jockey, I fancy. 

Marc. Wretch! 

Git. A count, a prince of the empire? 

Marc. Wrong. An archduke. 

Git. I must say you have spared no costs. 

Marc. Yes, an archduke, who gave up the 
court for her sake, married her and emigrated 
with her to the Canary Islands. 

Git. The Canary Islands! Splendid! And 
then — 

Marc. With the disembarkation — 

Git. In Canaryland. 

Marc. The story ends. 

TET 





COMEDIES OF WORDS 








Git. Good. I’m very much interested, espe- 
cially in the veiling. 

Marc. You yourself wouldn’t recognize me 
were it not for — 

Git. What? 

Marc. The third chapter from the end, 
where our correspondence is published entire. 

Git. What? 

Marc. Yes, all the letters you sent me and 
those I sent you are included in the novel. 

Git. I see, but may I ask where you got those 
you sent me? I thought I had them. 

Marc. Iknow. But, you see, I had the habit 
of always making a rough draft. 

Git. A rough draft? 

Mare. Yes. 

Git. A rough draft! Those letters which 
seemed to have been dashed off in such tremen- 
dous haste. ‘‘ Just one word, dearest, before I go 
tobed? My eyelids are heavy —” and when your 
eyelids were closed you wrote the whole thing over 
again. 

Marc. Are you piqued about it? 

Git. I might have expected as much. I 
ought to be glad, however, that they weren't 
bought from a professional love-letter writer. 
Oh, how everything begins to crumble! The 
whole past is nothing but a heap of ruins. She 
made a rough draft of her letters! 

Marc. Be content. Maybe my letters will 
be all that will remain immortal of your mem- 
ory. 

Git. And along with them will remain the 
fatal story. 

152 


LITERATURE 


Marc. Why? 

GIL. [indicating his book]. Because they also 
appear in my book. 

Marc. In where? 

Git. In my novel. 

Marc. What? 

Git. Our letters — yours and mine. 

Marc. Where did you get your own? I’ve 
got them in my possession. Ah, so you, too, made 
a rough draft? 

Git. Nothing of the kind! I only copied 
them before mailing. I didn’t want to lose them. 
There are some in my book which you didn’t even 
get. They were, in my opinion, too beautiful for 
you. You wouldn’t have understood them at all. 

Marc. Merciful heavens! If this is so— 
[turning the leaves of Gilbert's book]. Yes, 
yes, itis so. Why, it’s just like telling the world 
that we two— Merciful heavens! [Feverishly 
turning the leaves.| Is the letter you sent me the 
morning after the first night also — 

Git. Surely. That was brilliant. 

Marc. This is horrible. Why, this is going 
to create a European sensation. And Clement — 
My God; I’m beginning to hope that he will not 
come back. I am ruined! And you along with 
me. Wherever you are, he’ll be sure to find you 
and blow your brains out like a mad dog. 

GIL. [pocketing his book]. Insipid compari- 
son! 

Marc. How did you hit upon such an insane 
idea? ‘To publish the correspondence of a woman 
whom, in all sincerity, you professed to have 
loved! Oh, you’re no gentleman. 


153 








COMEDIES OF WORDS 








GIL. Quite charming. Haven’t you done the 
same? 

Marc. I’m a woman. 

Git. Do you take refuge in that now? 

Marc. Oh, it’s true. I have nothing to re- 
proach you with. We were made for one an- 
other. Yes, Clement was right. We’re worse 
than those women who appear in flesh-colored 
tights. Our most sacred feelings, our pangs — 
everything — we make copy of everything. 
Pfuil Pfui! It’s sickening. We two belong to 
one another. Clement would only be doing what 
is right if he drove me away. [Suddenly.] 
Come, Amandus. 

Git. What is it? 

Mare. I accept your proposal. 

Git. What proposal? 

Mare. I’m going to cut it with you. [Looks 
for her hat and cloak. | 

Git. Eh? What do you mean? 

Mare. [very much excited; puts her hat on 
tightly|. Everything can be as it was. You've 
said it. It needn’t be the Isar— well, I’m 
ready. 

Git. Sheer madness! ‘Cut it—what’s the 
meaning of this? Didn’t you yourself say a min- 
ute ago that he’d find me anywhere. If you’re 
with me, he’ll have no difficulty in finding you, too. 
Wouldn’t it be better if each — 

Marc. Wretch! Now you want to leave me 
in a lurch! Why, only a few minutes ago you 
were on your knees before me. Have you no con- 
science ? 

Git. What’s the use? I am a sick, nervous 


154 


LITERATURE | 








man, suffering from hypochondria. [Margaret 
at the window utters a cry. | 

Git. What’s up? What will the general’s 
widow think? 

Mare. It’s he. He’s coming back. 

Git. Well, then — 

Marc. What? You intend to go? 

_Git. I didn’t come here to pay the baron a 
visit. 

Marc. He’ll encounter you on the stairs. 
That would be worse. Stay. I refuse to be sac- 
rificed alone. ‘ 

Git. Now, don’t lose your senses. Why do 
you tremble like that? It’s quite absurd to be- 
lieve that he’s already gone through both novels. 
Calm yourself. Remove your hat. Off with 
your cloak. [Assists her.] If he catches you in 
this frame of mind he can’t help but suspect. 

Marc. It’s all the same to me. Better now 
than later. I can’t bear waiting and waiting for 
the horrible event. I’m going to tell him every- 
thing right away. 

Git. Everything? 

Marc. Yes. And while you are still here. 
If I make a clean breast of everything now maybe 
he’ll forgive me. 

Git. And me—what about me? I have a 
higher mission in the world, I think, than to suffer 
myself to be shot down like a mad dog by a jealous 
baron. [The bell rings. ] 

Marc. It’s he! It’s he. 

Git. Understand, you’re not to breathe a 
word. 

Marc. I’ve made up my mind. 


155. 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








Git. Indeed, have a care. For, if you do, I 
shall sell my hide at a good price. I shall hurl 
such naked truths at him that he’ll swear no baron 
heard the like of them. 

CLEM. [entering, somewhat surprised, but quite 
cool and courteous|. Oh, Mr. Gilbert! Am I 
right? 

Git. The very same, Baron. I’m travelling 
south, and I couldn’t repress the desire to pay my 
respects to madame. 

Crem. Ah, indeed. [Pause.] Pardon me, 
it seems I’ve interrupted your conversation. 
Pray, don’t let me disturb you. 

Git. What were we talking about just now? 

CieM. PerhapsI canassist yourmemory. In 
Munich, if I recall correctly, you always talked 
about your books. 

GIL. Quite so. As a matter of fact, I was 
speaking about my new novel. 

CLeM. Pray, continue. Nowadays, I find 
that I, too, can talk literature. Eh, Margaret? 
Is it naturalistic? Symbolic? Autobiographical? 
Or — let me see — is it distilled? 

Git. Oh, in a certain sense we all write about 
our life-experiences. 

Crem. H’m. That’s good to know. 

Git. Yes, if you’re painting the character of 
Nero, in my opinion it’s absolutely necessary that 
you should have set fire to Rome — 

Crem. Naturally. 

Git. From what source should a writer de- 
rive his inspiration if not from himself? Where 
should he go for his models if not to the life which 


156 


LITERATURE 








is nearest tohim? [Margaret becomes more and 
more uneasy. | 

CLEM. Isn’t it a pity, though, that the models 
are so rarely consulted? But I must say, if I 
were a woman, I’d think twice before I’d let such 
people know anything — [Sharply.] In decent 
society, sir, that’s the same as compromising a 
woman! 

Git. I don’t know whether I belong to decent 
society or not, but, in my humble opinion, it’s the 
same as ennobling a woman. 

Crem. Indeed. 

Git. The essential thing is, does it really hit 
the mark? Ina higher sense, what does it mat- 
ter if the public does know that a woman was 
happy in this bed or that? 

Crem. Mr. Gilbert, allow me to remind you 
that you are speaking in the presence of a lady. 

Git. I’m speaking in the presence of a com- 
rade, Baron, who, perhaps, shares my views in 
these matters. 

Crem. Oh! 

Marc. Clement! [Throws herself at his 
feet.| Clement! 

CieM [staggered]. But — Margaret. 

Marc. Your forgiveness, Clement! 

Crem. But, Margaret. [To Gilbert.| It’s 
very painful to me, Mr. Gilbert. Now, get up, 
Margaret. Get up, everything’s all right; every- 
thing’s arranged. Yes, yes. You have but to call 
up Kinigel. I have already arranged everything 
with him. We are going to put it out for sale. 
Is that suitable to you? 

Git. What are you going to put out for sale, 


1$7 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








if I may be so boldasto ask? The novel madame 
has written? 

Ciem. Ah, so you know already. At all 
events, Mr. Gilbert, it seems that your camarad- 
erie is not required any further. 

Git. Yes. There’s really nothing left for me 
but to beg to be excused. I’m sorry. 

Ciem. I very much regret, Mr. Gilbert, that 
you had to witness a scene which might almost be 
called domestic. 

Git. Oh, I do not wish to intrude any further. 

Git. Madame — Baron, may I offer you a 
copy of my book as a token that all ill-feeling be- 
tween us has vanished? As a feeble sign of my 
sympathy, Baron? 

Ciem. You're very good, Mr. Gilbert. I 
must, however, tell you that this is going to be the 
last, or the one before the last, that I ever intend 
to read. 

Git. The one before the last? 

CLEM. Yes. 

Marc. And what’s the last going to be? 

Crem. Yours, my love. [Draws an ad- 
vance copy from his pocket.| I wheedled an ad- 
vance copy from Kunigel to bring to you, or, 
rather, to both of us. [Margaret and Gilbert ex- 
change scared glances. | 

Marc. How good of you! [Taking the 
book.| Yes, it’s mine. 

CLeEM. We will read it together. 

Marc. No, Clement, no. I cannot accept so 
much kindness. [She throws the book into the 
fireplace.| 1 don’t want to hear of this sort of 
thing any more. 

158 


LITERATURE 








GiL. [very joyful]. But, dear madame — 
LEM. [going toward the fireplace]. Mar- 
garet, what have you done? 

Mare. [in front of the fireplace, throwing her 
arms about Clement]. Now, do you believe that 
I love you! 

Git. [most gleeful]. It appears that I’m en- 
tirely de trop here. Dear Madame — Baron — 
[To himself.| Pity, though, I can’t stay for the 
last chapter. [Goes out. ] 


[ CURTAIN. | 


159 


HIS HELPMATE 
PERSONS 


PROFESSOR ROBERT PILGRAM. 

DocTER ALFRED HAUSMANN. 

PROFESSOR WERKMANN. 

PROFESSOR BRAND. 

OLGA MERHOLM. 

FRANZ, manservant at Pilgram’s summer resi- 
dence. 


The action takes place in a summer resort not 
far removed from Vienna, on an autumn evening 
in the year 1897. 


[SceNE: An elegantly furnished room. 
The wall paper and furniture are light tinted; 
blue is the prevailing shade. On the left, 
down stage, a lady’s escritoire stands; on the 
right, a piano. Left and right entrances fac- 
ing each other. In the rear, a wide-open door 
giving on to a balcony. Through the door the 
audience is afforded an uninterrupted view of 
the landscape. A _ street, rising gradually, 
winds far in the distance until it is cut off by 
a cemetery wall. The wallis not very high, so 
that gravestones and crosses are visible above 
its crest. Far beyond loom haze-enshrouded 

160 


HIS’  HEEPMATE 








mountain peaks, quite steep. The time is late 
evening — almost night. 

The landscape is bathed in a soft gloom, and 
the moon has illumined the single street with its 
silver glow. 

Robert enters from the right, escorting Pro- 
fessors Werkmann and Brand to the door. | 


Ros. Excuse me a moment, gentlemen, while 
I fetch a light. How dark it is here! 

WerRK. Much obliged, dear fellow. I guess 
we can find our way out. 

Ros. It'll only take a minute. [Goes out; 
Werkmann and Brand remain motionless in the 
gloom. | 

WERK. How lightly he seems to bear the 
blow. 

BRAND. Merely a mask, my dear Werkmann; 
the comic mask. 

WERK. I dare say; but when one’s burying 
one’s wife, the — er — comic — 

BRAND. It is evident, my dear Werkmann, 
you know mighty little about Pilgram. Don’t you 
perceive, it has a very dazzling effect on people. 
I mean this interment of one’s wife in the after- 
noon, and atop of that a two-hour long discussion 
on scientific subjects in the evening. Why, you 
yourself were taken in by it. 

Werk. Aman has got to be a man, Brand. 

[Enter Robert with a branched candlestick. 

Two candles are lit. ] 

Ros. Here I am again, gentlemen. [The 
room is illuminated but faintly. | 

WerRK. Exactly where are we now? 

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COMEDIES OF WORDS 








Ros. Oh, this was my poor wife’s room. 
That small flight of stairs over there will take us 
to the garden gate and in five minutes you will be 
at the station. 

Branp. Is there any chance of our still mak- 
ing the nine o’clock train? 

Ros. I think so. [The door on the right is 
pushed open from without. Enter Franz with a 
wreath. | 

Ros. What is it? 

FRANZ. This wreath has just come from the 
city, sir. 

Ros. So late! 

WERK. Probably one of your friends who got 
the news too late. It’s not unusual, I assure you. 
Many more of these melancholy tokens will pour 
in; you'll see. Ah! I’ve gone through it all. 

Franz. Where shall I put the wreath, sir? 

Ros. [to Franz]. On the balcony. 

[Franz puts it as bidden, then goes out. | 

WERK. Your assistant, I understand, 1s away 
on his vacation? 

Ros. Yes; but I expect him back ere long. I 
shouldn’t be a bit surprised if he returns tomor- 
row. 

Werk. I suppose you'll arrange for his tak- 
ing your place during the early part of the semes- 
ter. 

Ros. Not at all. I don’t propose to give up 
my work. 

WERK. [grasping his hand]. By Jove, that’s 
fine! I’m fully convinced it’s the only balm there 
is. 

Ros. So it is. Even if work did not act in 

162 


HIS HELPMATE 








the way of a balm, to my mind, it is an open ques- 
tion still whether we are justified in shelving a 
slice of our brief existence. After we have been 
cowardly enough to survive the first staggering 
blow. [He precedes them in going out. | 

WERK. [to Brand]. Proof positive, my dear 
Brand, he never entertained the least bit of affec- 
tion for his wife. 

BRAND [with a shrug]. H’m! [All go out, 
right. For a few minutes the stage remains 
empty. Olga enters from the left. She is clad 
in a dark evening costume without a hat. She 
casts off her light fur-lined mantle. Enter Franz 
from the balcony. | 

FRANZ. Good evening, Frau Merholm. 

Oca. The professor —is in the garden, I 
suppose. 

FRANZ. Yes, m’m, escorting two gentlemen — 
[Olga makes a sign to him as Robert enters with- 
out noticing her. ] 

Ros. [going toward the escritoire]. Franz, 
can you tell me when the last train from the city’s 
due here? 

FRANZ. Ten o'clock, sir. 

Ros. H’m. [Pause.] Then we may still 
count on Dr. Hausmann’s arrival this evening. If 
he should come, without further delay show him 
in to me. 

FRANZ. Here? 

Ros. If I should happen to be here at the 
time, yes. [Franz goes out. Robert sits down 
to the escritoire, about to unlock it.] 

Orca [advancing behind him]. Good even- 
ing. 

163 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 


Ros. [surprised]. Olga! [Rises.] 

O1cA [mastering her embarrassment with dif- 
ficulty]. How I ached to grasp your hand this 
whole dreary day! 

Ros. And I yours. I am grateful to you all 
the same, Olga. [Extends his hand.| 

Oca. Robert, you are indeed blessed with a 
greet many friends; this day bore witness to the 

act. 

Ros. Yes. The last of them have just taken 
their leave. 

Oe a Pray, who can have stayed as late as 
this: 

Ros. Brand and Werkmann —a pair of sniv- 
eling old wives! Just fancy the fellow is incon- 
ceivably proud he had the misfortune to lose his 
wife last year! He certainly speaks with the au- 
thority of a connoisseur in these things, the vain 
idiot! [Pause.] But fancy your leaving the 
villa unaccompanied ! 

Ouca. Do you think I’m afraid to cut across 
the fields alone? 

Ros. No; but won’t your husband be uneasy? 

Orca. On the contrary. He’s under the im- 
pression I’m snug asleep up in my room. Be- 
sides, I very often take a stroll in the garden at a 
late hour — 

Ros. Along our path, eh? 

Orca. Our —lI suppose you refer to the one 
that winds in and out among the trellis vines? 

Ros. I always think of that as belonging espe- 
cially to you and me. 

Otca. I often take the air in it alone. 

Ros. Yes, but not at night. 

164 








HIS HELPMATE 








Orca. In the evening sometimes. It’s only 
then that one can appreciate how lovely it really is. 
‘ Ros. What an air of indescribable repose it 

as | 

Oca [tenderly]. Hasn’t it? That’s just 
why you must make up your mind to visit us again 
—soon. You'll be cheerfuller up at our house 
than here. 

Ros. Maybe so. [Looks at her a moment, 
then turns his back to the audience.| See! That 
was where we filed out. [Olga nods.] Can 
you realize that all this happened only a few hours 
ago? And can you — now at night — picture to 
your mind the afternoon sunlight playing over 
that dark road? Odd, indeed! I even seem to 
hear the rumbling of the carriages! [Pause. He 
is very nervous and talks disconnectedly.| You 
are right. There were a great many friends 
here. And, one must consider, all came from the 
city; that’s quite a trip, you know. Did you see 
the wreath my students sent? 

Orca. Yes: 

Ros. It was magnificent, wasn’t it? And 
what expressions of sympathy generally! Several 
of my colleagues interrupted their vacations to 
be present. It is truly very — how shall I put 
it [hesitates|— amiable of them, don’t you 
think? 

OLGA. Quite the customary thing, I should 
say. 
Ros. To be sure! But I keep asking myself 
whether at bottom my bereavement, taken all in 
all, is really deserving of this widespread sym- 
pathy — or expression of sympathy. 


165 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








Bites [quite shocked]. How can you think 
that: 

Ros. Because I suffer so little. I only know 
that she is no more. I am conscious of the bare 
fact with feelings so shockingly unequivocal that 
it tortures me to think of it; but within all is icy 
and transparent as the air on winter dawns. 

Ox.ca. This feeling cannot last. The awak- 
ening pang will come — and that will be better for 
you in the end. 

Ros. Who knows whether it will come? It 
all happened too long ago. 

Orca [surprised]. Too long ago! What 
happened too long ago? 

Ros. The giving of herself — ourselves — to 
one another. 

Oca. Of course. But that is what usually 
happens in most marriages. [She goes toward 
the balcony and suddenly spies the wreath. | 

Ros. Last to arrive. It’s from Dr. Haus- 
mann. 

Orca. Ah! [She reads the card. Robert 
watches her closely. She is uneasy under his 
gaze. | 

Oca. Has he arrived yet? 

Ros. No. I telegraphed him at once to 
Scheveningen, and I would not be surprised to see 
him here —today yet. If when he arrives at 
Vienna he loses no time — 

Orca. I’m sure he won't. 

Ros. Then he ought to be here in precisely 
one hour. 

Oca [with forced confidence]. What a great 
blow for him! 

166 


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Ros. No doubt. [Pause, then quietly.] Be 
candid with me, Olga. There is another reason 
for your coming here again today. I read it in 
your manner. Tell me, quite simply. 

Oca. It is more difficult than I imagined. 

Ros. [impatiently, but for all that master of 
himself |. Well, well — 

Orca. I came to beg a favor of you. 

Ros. If it’s in my power. 

Orca. Easily. It affects certain letters which 
I wrote poor Eveline and which, if possible, I’d 
like to have back. 

Ros. But why this haste? 

O1ca. I thought that the first step you would 
naturally take would be — 

Ros. What? 

OLGA [pointing to the escritoire]. The very 
one you were about to take when I entered. [Jn 
a subdued tone of voice.| I'd do it, too, if one I 
loved should — die. 

Ros. [slightly perturbed]. Loved — loved — 

OtcaA. Then one who was close to me. It 
helps to arouse in one’s mind the image of the 
dead. [She speaks the following like a passage 
got by rote.| You see, my letters might have 
come to your notice first, and that is why I came. 
There are matters in them which must, by no 
means, be revealed to you; which were intended 
from one woman to another. Especially certain 
letters I wrote two or three years ago. 

Ros. Where are they? Do you know where 
they have been put? 

Orca. If you'll only let me, I shall have no 
trouble in finding them. 

167 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








Ros. You wish to look for — 

Oca. It is the simplest way, I think, since I 
know where they are. However, if you wish you 
can unlock the drawer and I will tell you ex- 
actly — 

Ros. Never mind; here’s the key. 

Orca. Thanks. Pray don’t regard me as se- 
cretive. 

Ros. Oh, no! 

Oca. Some day I shall reveal all to you — I 
mean all that Eveline knew, even though it be at 
the risk of forfeiting your esteem. But thus, by 
chance, I wouldn’t like to have you discover them. 

Ros. I assure you, you will always command 
my esteem. 

Orica. Who knows? You know you have al- 
ways overestimated me. 

Ros. I cannot bring myself to believe that 
these letters contain something unknown to me. 
[Pause.| What’s more, it isn’t your own secrets 
you wish to preserve. 

OLGA [shrewdly]. Whose, then? 

Ros. The secrets of someone else. 

Oxca. What makes you think so? Eveline 
had no secrets which you did not share. 

Ros. I’m not inquisitive. You may take your 
letters. 

Oca [unlocking the drawer and searching). 
Here they are! Yes. [She takes out a small 
package tied with a blue ribbon, holds it so that 
Robert cannot see. Finally she slyly tucks it un- 
der her wrap.| And now I must go. Good-by. 
[She turns to go. ] 

Ros. Wouldn’t it be a good thing to glance 

168 


HIS HELPMATE 








into the other drawer as well? You know it needs 
ae a hasty note to render all your precautions use- 
ess. 

OLGA [with less confidence]. How useless? 

Ros. You might have spared yourself all this 
trouble, Olga. 

OxtcA. What do you mean? 

Ros. You above all, who were familiar with 
the relations between Eveline and myself. 

Oxtca. They were no worse than such rela- 
tions ordinarily are after ten years. But I don’t 
see how that concerns my letters. 

Ros. And do you really believe that even ten 

{ years ago I cherished any illusions? ‘That were 
_ simon pure simplicity when one marries a woman 
\ twenty years younger than oneself. I realized 
/ very clearly in the beginning that at best the fu- 
( ture held but one or two perfect years for me. 
\ Yes, dear Olga, I was under no delusion regard- 
ing that. In my case this talk of illusions falls 
‘flat. Life is not long enough for us to reject even 
one year of happiness when it is offered to us. 
And, let me assure you, it is sufficient — at least 
as concerns our relations with women. I refer 
naturally to the women one adores. One soon 
tires of them. In life there are other things which 
have a greater hold on men. 

Orca. Possibly. But one doesn’t always real- 
ize it. 

Ros. I have never lost sight of it. She was 
never at any time the all-in-all of my life — never, 
even during that one year of happiness. In a 
certain sense, I grant you, she was more than that 
— the fragrance, if you will. But, as is to be ex- 

169 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 











pected, the fragrance in time died out. But all 
this is useless. [He speaks with more and more 
emotion in his voice, but outwardly gives the ap- 
pearance of calmness.| We had nothing in com- 

. mon, we two, but the memory of our short-lived 

, happiness. And, take my word for it, this sort 

{ of SomaoH memory severs more often than it 

‘ybinds. 

Oca. I can conceive of it ending differently. 

Ros. No doubt. But scarcely with a crea- 
ture of Eveline’s type. She was cut out to be a 
mistress; not a helpmate. 

Orca. Helpmate! That word’s big with 
| meaning. How many women do you know who 
| are fit to be helpmates? 

' Ros. I never asked her to be one to me. To 

i speak truth, I never felt lonely. A man who has 

; a calling —TI don’t mean an occupation — can 

; really never know the pangs of loneliness. 

OLGA [dispassionately|. There in a nutshell 
is the great advantage you men possess — I mean 
men of your cut. 

Ros. And when our happiness came to an end 
I again took up the thread of my life-work, con- 
cerning which she knew very little, as you are 
aware. I went my way and she went hers. 

Ouca. No. It was not so. Ah, no! 

Rog. Of course it was so. She’s probably 
told you more than you are willing to own. As 
far as I am concerned this guarded abstraction 
of her letters is uncalled for. There are no sur- 
prises and no discoveries for me any more. 
What are you trying to do? You would gladly 
have me remain in darkness — no, envelope me 

170 


HIS HELPMATE 








in darkness. I know very well that I lost her a 
long time ago. Yes, a long time ago. [With 
growing emotion.| And do you for a moment 
believe that because all between us was dead, I 
gulled myself into thinking she was also cold to 
the joy of life; that she became an old woman sim- 
ply because she had drifted away from me — or 
I had drifted away from her? I never enter- 
tained the notion. 

Oca. Really, Robert, I’m quite at a loss to 
account for your conjectures. 

Ros. I know who wrote those letters. It was 
not you. I know, too, there is another who de- 
serves to be pitied much more deeply than I; one 
whom she loved. And it was he who was be- 
- yeaved of her today. No, not I; not I. You 
see, all this trouble was uncalled for. ‘There can 
be no other. 

Oca. You are shockingly deceived. 

Ros. Olga, let me beg you to tear off the 
mask at once. Otherwise I may be tempted to 
read those letters after all. [Observing a rapid 
movement of Olga’s.| You needn't fear. I 
won't do it. Let us burn them before he arrives. 

Oxca. Do you wish to do that? 

Ros. Yes. For that was my intention be- 
fore you came. Everything this escritoire con- 
tains I propose to throw into the fire without ex- 
amination. 

Orca. No, I’m sure you would not have done 
te 

Ros. You needn’t reproach yourself either. 
Perhaps it is for the best that I know everything 
without having to glance at the correspondence. 


171 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








Thus there is a complete understanding — and 
that is the single gift we ought to ask of life. 

OLGA [earnestly]. You might have asked a 
great deal more. 

Ros. Once—yes. And I would not have 
had to ask in vain. But now? She was young 
and I was old; that’s the long and short of it. 
You and I can weigh affairs of this sort inpar- 
tially in the case of others. Why not here? [4 
locomotive whistles in the distance. Olga starts. 
Pause. | 

Oca. For my sake, I beg you to receive him 
tomorrow. 

Bos. Why? Do I not look calm? Do you 
honestly believe that 1— There is just one thing 
that I must ask you to do for me. He must not 
learn that I know. If he did he’d interpret 
every word of mine in terms of forgiveness and 
magnanimity. I don’t want that. It isn’t true. 
I have never hated him; I do not hate him now. 
Why, there’s absolutely no ground for hate — 
and none for forgiveness either. She belonged 
to him. Pray, let’s not lose sight of that. Let 
us by all means avoid getting confused by external 
circumstances. She belonged to him —not me. 
The tension of their existence could not have 
lasted much longer. 

Orca. I implore you, Robert, do not receive 
him tonight. 

Ros. You know very well she wanted to leave 
me. 


OLGAs J)? 
Ros. Yes, for she confided in you. 
Orca. Oh, no! 


172 


HIS HELPMATE 








Ros. Then how did you know where those 
letters were? 

Oca. I happened to come in once while she 
was reading one aloud. I did not mean to eaves- 
drop, but — 

Ros. But she had to have a confidante, that’s 
very plain; and you could not help being hers; 
that’s evident enough. No. Matters could not 
have continued this way very long. Do you think 
I was blind to the shame both endured because of 
their hypocrisy — and how they suffered? I was 


longing for the moment — yes, patiently await- ~ 


ing it—-when they would nerve themselves to 
come to me and say, “Free us!’ Why didn’t 
they find the courage? Why didn’t I say to them, 
“You may go. I don’t want to detain you.” 
But we were all cowardly. To me that’s the ab- 
surd side of life. We are eternally expecting 
some outer force to smite the shackles of the 
intolerable ——an unknown something — which 
takes upon itself the pains for our being honest 
with one another. And soon it comes, this some- 
thing, as with us. [Rumble of carriage wheels 
below. Brief silence. Olga is very much ex- 
cited. Robert, externally calm, continues speak- 
ing. | 

Ros. And one must admit, at any rate, it 
provides a capital solution. [The carriage 
stops. | 

Oca. You are going to receive him? 

Ros. He must not see the letters. 

Orca. Let me go. I'll take them away with 
me. 

Ros. Here, by these stairs — 


173 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








Oca. I hear his step. 

Ros. He must have come through the garden 
then. [He takes the letters from her and hastily 
replaces them in the drawer.| ‘Too late. Don't 
go. [Footsteps outside. Alfred rushes in. He 
wears a dark traveling suit. As he spies Olga 
he is just the least bit embarrassed. Robert 
makes as if to go toward him, but stops in an atti- 
tude of waiting after taking two steps. Alfred 
grasps his hand, then goes to Olga and offers her 
his. A brief silence. | 

AF. In my wildest dreams I did not picture 
our meeting again like this. 

noe You didn’t stop over in the city, did 
you! 

Air. No. _ I reckoned if I wanted to see you 
today —and I couldn’t think of putting it off. 
[To Olga.] Oh, it’s heartbreaking! Heart- 
breaking! How did it happen? I haven’t been 
told yet. How? How? In a word tell me. 
[Robert does not reply. ] 

Oca. It happened quite unexpectedly. 

Ar. Heart failure? 

ROR, oles: 

Ar. Without any previous symptoms? 

Ros. Without any previous symptoms. 

Aur. When and where? 

Ros. The day before yesterday, while she 
was taking a turn in the garden. The gardener 
saw her stagger—near the pond. From my 
room I heard his cry. When I arrived on the 
spot all was over. 

Ar. My poor fellow! How you must have 


174 


HIS HELPMATE 








suffered! I can’t realize it all. So young and 
so beautiful! 

OxGa. They are favored by heaven who are 
taken off that way. 

AF. That’s no consolation. 

Ros. I suppose you got my telegram rather 
ate. 

ALF. Yes; otherwise I might have been here ~ 
earlier. If there were such things as presenti- 
ments — 

Oca. But there are none. 

ALF. Quite so. The day was like any other. 
Possibly brighter and cheerfuller than usual — 

Ros. Cheerfuller than usual? 

ALF. Of course, I only imagined so. We 
were out sailing on the water. After that we 
went for a stroll along the beach in the cool twi- 
light — 

Ros. We? 

Ar. Certainly; quite a lot of people; and 
when I returned to the hotel, in the dimness of 
my room I gazed out upon the sea. Then I gota 
light — and spied the telegram on the table. 
Ah! [Pause. He covers his eyes with his hands 
while Olga watches Robert narrowly. Robert is 
gazing straight before him.] 

ALF. [removing his hand from his eyes]. 
This is her —[ chokes |— room? 

Ros. Yes. 

Ar. How often have we sat there on the 
balcony! [Turning, he catches a glimpse of the 
cemetery wall at the end of the street. Tremu- 
lously.| There? [Robert nods.) Inthe morn- 
ing we must visit her — you and I. 

175 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








Ros. You can offer your wreath there your- 
self. It has just come. [ Pause. | 

Aur. And what are your plans for the imme- 
diate future? 

Ros. What do you mean? 

Orca. I’ve asked the professor to spend as 
much time as he can spare at the villa. 

Aur. In any case he mustn’t remain here. 
No, you must not remain on the spot. 

Ros. I have planned to move to the city early 
in October. It isn’t very long until then. Be- 
sides, I shall glance into the laboratory once or 
twice. The two Americans who were here last 
year have been at work since the end of August. 

ALF. Yes, so you wrote me in your last let- 
ter. But you needn’t return to the city for that. 
You’re not going to buckle down to work right 
away, | hope. 

Ros. You're simply preposterous, Alfred! 
What else canI do? I assure you I’ve no inclina- 
tion to anything but work. 

ALF. But you're not fit for it now. 

Ros. You are no better than the rest in your 
advice. I feel myself perfectly fit. Why, I’m 
just longing for it! 

Ar. I understand. But this longing is not 
to be trusted. I havea proposalto make. [Cor- 
dially.| Come away with me. You have 
granted me a few days more and I’m going to take 
you with me. What do you say to that, Frau 
Merholm? 

Otca. Not a bad idea, that. 

Ros. You intend going away—now? 
You — 


176 


HIS HELPMATE 








Ar. Of course, I intend to ask for a few days 
more. 

Ros. But where are you going? 

Aur. To the seashore. 

Ros. Back again? 

ALF. Yes, but with you. It will do you a 
heap of good. Take my word for it. Eh, Frau 
Merholm? 

Orca. Oh, of course. 

Aur. Now you come along with me to 
Scheveningen —I insist on it— and spend sev- 
eral days with us there. 

Rope = st “Us Dhen-you are: not 
alone? 

Ar. Of course I’m alone. But there are 
people at Scheveningen — who — [stammers |— 

Ros. Well? [Pause.] 

AF. I didn’t wish to announce the news until 
a few days yet, but since things have combined in 
such a way — in a word, I’m engaged to be mar- 
ried. 

Ros. [quite coldly]. Ah! 

AF. It doesn’t matter whether I announce it 
today or tomorrow, does it? Life still flows on. 
But it seems a little strange that it had to happen 
just — 

Ros. I congratulate you! 

Aur. Now you see why I said “ with us” a 
moment ago, and you will understand now why I 
am impatient to return. 

IROBes wertectly. 

Ar. But please come along. Her parents 
would be most delighted to make your acquaint- 
ance. Ispokeso much about you. They’re good 


177 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








people, besides. As for the girl— well, you'll 
judge when you see her. 

Ros. Notnow. I may find time later. [He 
is successful in maintaining this studied calmness, 
but not without difficulty.| This is quite a mad 
notion of yours —a trip to the seashore to be in- 
troduced to your fiancée. By the by, how many 
millions is she worth? 

ALF. [pained]. What a question to ask! I 
give you my word, I’m not the type of man who 
marries for money. 

Ros. So it’s a grande passion, eh? 

Ar. Let’s not speak of it any more today. 
It’s almost a —[he almost says “ sacrilege’? |. 

Ros. Whynot? ‘“ Life still flows on,” as you 
truthfully remarked. Let us talk of the living. 
How did you make her acquaintance? 

Aur. She’s Viennese. 

Ros. Ah, now I know all! 

AF. Impossible! 

Ros. Surely you recall you once related to me 
the story of your youthful student love for a girl 
with golden hair? 

Ar. What’s that to do with it? 

Ros. Well, a chance meeting after many 
years, the awakening of the old passion, and so on. 

Ar. How well you remember it! No, it is 
not she. I know my fiancée but two years, and it 
was for her sake that I chose the seashore for my 
vacation. 

Ros. And there you fell in love with her. 

Atr. Oh, I knew for ever so long that I was 
going to make her my wife. 

Ros. Indeed! 

178 


HIS HELPMATE 








Aur. We’ve been secretly engaged one whole 
year. 

Ros. And you scrupled to tell me — us — one 
word of it? Oh! — 

Ar. There were several things to be taken 
into consideration. Chiefly her family. But we 
were decided all along. I might almost say that 
from the first moment we have been plighted in 
our affections. 

Ros. Two years? 


Atr. Yes. 
Ros. As long as that? 
ADE. “Yes: 


Ros. And — she? 

ALF. [quite mechanically]. And she? 

Ros. And that other — that other. 

ALF. Whom do you mean? 

Ros. [grasping his shoulder and pointing up 
the street]. She — yonder! 

[ Alfred casts a glance at Olga. | 

Ros. To what end did she serve? 

ALF. [after a pause, supporting himself]. 
Why have you been playing with me all this while? 
If you knew, why did you continue to treat me as 
a friend? If you knew —the law was in your 
hands. You could have done with me as you 
chose — anything. But one thing you had no 
right to do, and that was to play with me. 

Ros. I didnot play with you. If I had found 
you broken and disconsolate I should have lifted 
you from the depths of sorrow and despair; yes, 
I should even have visited her grave with you if 
I knew your love lay there. But you degraded 
her into an instrument of your lust and you have 


179 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








besmirched with foulness and lies the sanctity of 
this house. ‘That is what is so repulsive, and that 
is why I’m going to kick you out — 

AF. Calm yourself; I may be able to explain. 

Ros. Clear out! Clear out! Clear out! 
[ Alfred goes. | 

Ros. You wanted to spare me this. Now I 
understand. It was well for her that she died 
ens an inkling — of what she really meant to 

im. 

OLGA [turning to him]. Without an inkling? 

Ros. What do you mean? 

O1ea [reflecting a moment]. She — knew all. 

Ros. What! What! She — 

Ouca. Knew what she was to him. Don’t 
you grasp it yet? WHe neither betrayed nor de- 
graded her, and she was resigned to his marrying 
long ago as a matter of course. When he wrote 
her the news she wept as little over his loss — as 
he over hers. They would never have come to 
you for their freedom because the freedom they 
coveted they possessed in full. 

Ros. She knew it? And you, you who are 
anxious to conceal the contents of those letters, 
answer — 

Orca. Am I not giving you back your free- 
dom by doing so? For years and years you suf- 
fered at the hands of this woman plunging from 
one delusion to another, so that you might con- 
tinue loving her and consequently suffering more. 
And now, when all is over, you wish to torture 
yourself still further for the sake of a calamity 
which is purely chimerical, over which this woman 
was incapable of suffering. Why? Because her 

180 


HIS HELPMATE 








outlook on life was so frivolous. Oh, you can 
scarcely understand. 

Ros. And to think I should only realize it to- 
day! Now! Why didn’t you, a witness of the 
whole affair, rouse me out of my ridiculous short- 
sightedness? Why didn’t I know it a year ago? 
No, three days ago? 

Oca. I trembled at your awakening, as you 
yourself would have done in my place. It was 
well that you remained ignorant of the whole af- 
fair until today. 

Ros. Does it make any difference because she 
is dead? 

Oca. No difference; but it is clear as it could 
never have been as long as she was alive. For 
her very existence, her very smile would have lent 
importance to this mere trumpery escapade. You 
could never have felt what you must feel today — 
anger, for the simple reason that she is beyond 
your anger. And it is freedom that rends the veil 
from your eyes. How removed, how infinitely re- 
moved from you, this woman lived her life, who, 
as chance would have it, breathed her last in this 
house. [She goes. ] 

[Robert is silent for a space, then locks the 
escritoire, rises, goes to the door and calls. | 

Ros. Franz! 

FRANZ. Yes, sir! 

Ros. I leave tomorrow. Get my things 
ready and order a carriage for seven o’clock. 

FRANZ. Very good, sir. 

Ros. [after a brief pause]. Ill give you fur- 
ther instructions tomorrow. You may go to bed. 
[4s Franz lingers]: Never mind; [ll lock the 

181 


COMEDIES OF WORDS 








room up myself. It is to stay shut until I return. 

FRANZ. Very well, sir. 

Ros. Good night. 

FRANZ. Good night, sir. 

[Robert locks the door at once, then goes to- 
ward the balcony. As he is about to lock up he 
spies the wreath. He takes it and returns to the 
room with it and places it on the escritoire. Then, 
with the light in his hand, he goes to the door, 
left. On the threshold he pauses and turns, tak- 
ing in the whole room with his eyes. He breathes 
deeply, as if relieved of a burden, then goes out. 
The dark room remains empty for a while, then 


[ CuRTAIN. ] 


THE END 


182 














THE 
PROVINCETOWN PLAYS 


Edited by 
George Cram Cook and Frank Shay 


Introduction by Hutchins Hapgood 


The Provincetown Players are, save perhaps the Theatre 
Guild, the most progressive Little Theatre group in 
America. In 1914 they began giving plays on an old 
wharf at Cape Cod, plays which they wrote and acted in 
themselves. Later they brought their little organization 
to New York. It was then that the names of such play- 
rights as Eugene O'Neill, Susan Glaspell, Edna St. Vincent 
Millay, and Floyd Dell came before the public. The ten 
plays in this volume are a record of the Players’ achieve- 
ments. They were selected, it is well to remark, before 
‘“The Emperor Jones,” their most successful production, 
had been played. 


The Dial: ‘‘Some of the best one-act plays of the last torrential 
decade.”’ William Lyon Phelps: ‘We know how much the Province- 
town Players have done to advance the art of the drama, and here are 
important and characteristic specimens of their productions.’’ Balti- 
more Sun: ‘*The plays in this volume have great variety of intent, 
but each is by way of being a little masterpiece.”’ Theatre Arts: 
“The record of the Provincetown Playhouse in the production of 
original plays is unique among Little Theatres in America.” 


Suppressed Desires, by George Cram Cook & Susan 
Glaspell. _ A comedy in 2 scenes. (1m.2w.) Aria da 
Capo, by Edna St. Vincent Millay. (4m.1w.) Cocaine, 
by Pendleton King. (1 m.1w.) Night, by James Op- 
penheim. (4 m. 1w.) Enemies, by Neith Boyce and 
Hutchins Hapgood. (1m.1w.) The Angel Intrudes, by 
Floyd Dell. A comedy. (3 m.1w.) Bound East for 
Cardiff, by Eugene O'Neill. (11m.) The Widow’s Veil, 
by Alice Rostetter. A comedy. (2 w. and others.) The 
String of the Samisen, by Rita Wellman. (3 m. 2 w.) 
Not Smart, by Wilbur D. Steele. A farce. (2 m. 3 w.) 


Silk Cloth. 272 pages. 12mo. $2.50. 
34 Turkey Morocco, $7.50. 


STEWART KIDD PUBLISHERS 


























Stewart Kidd Dramatic Anthologies 





Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays 


Edited by 
FRANK SHAY and PIERRE LOVING 


Gy 


Stewart 


tem: 


HIS volume contains FIFTY REPRESENTATIVE ONE-ACT PLAY: 
of the MODERN THEATER, chosen from the dramatic works of con 

rary writers all over the world and is the second volume in th 
idd Dramatic Anthologies, the first being European Theories of th 


Drama, by Barrett H. Clark, which has been so enthusiastically received. 

The editors have scrupulously sifted countless plays and have selected th 
best available in English. One-half the plays have never before been pub 
lished in book form; thirty-one are no longer available in any other edition 
The work satisfies a long-felt want for a handy collection of the choices 


plays produced by the art theaters all over the world. 


It is a complete reper 


tory for a little theater, a volume for the study of the modern drama, a rep 
resentative collection of the world's best short plays. 


CONTENTS 


AUSTRIA 


Schnitzler (Arthur)—Literature 


BELGIUM 


Maeterlinck (Maurice)—The Intruder 


BOLIVIA 


More (Federico)—Interlude 


DEN MARK 


Wied (Gustave)—Autumn Fires 


FRANCE 


Ancey (Georges)—M. Lamblin 


Porto- Riche (Georges de)—Francoise’ Luck 
GERMANY 


Ettinger (Karl)—Altruism 
von Hofmannsthal (Hugo)—Madonna Dia- 


nora 
Wedekind (Frank)—The Tenor 
GREAT BRITAIN 


Bennett (Arnold)—A Good Woman 

Calderon (George)—The Little Stone House 

Cannan (Gilbert)—Mary’s Wedding 

Dowson (Ernest)—The Pierrot of the Min- 
ute 

Ellis (Mrs. Havelock)—The Subjection 
of Kezia 

Hankin A oe John)—The Constant Lover 


HOLLAN 


Speenhoff (J. H.)—Louise 


HUNGARY 


Era (Lajos)—The Grandmother 


INDI 


atin (Dhan Gopa!l)—The Judgment of 
a 


ndr 
IRELAND 


Gregory (Lady)—The Workhouse Ward 


ITALY 


Giacosa (Giuseppe)—The Rights of the Soul 


U: 
Andreyev (Leonid)—Love of One's Neigh- 


bor 
Tchekoff (Anton)—The Boor 


Large 8vo, 585 pages. 


SPAIN 


pero (Jacinto)—His Widow's Hus 
n 


a = 
Quintero (Serafin and Joaquin Alvares- 
—A Sunny Morning 


SWEDEN 


Strindberg (August)—The Creditor 


UNITED STATES 


Beach (Lewis)—Brothers 

Cowan (Sada)—In the Morgue 

Crocker (Bosworth)—The Baby Carriag 

one (George W.)—A Death in Feve 

at 

Davies (Mary Carolyn)—The Slave wit 
Two Faces 

Day (Frederick L.)—The Slump 

Flanner (Hildegarde)—Mansions 

Glaspeil (Susan)—Trifles 

Gerstenberg (Alice)—The Pot Boiler 

Helburn eter heee ea the Hero 

Hudson (Holland)—The Shepherd in th 
Distance 

Kemp (Harry)—Boccaccio’s Untold Tal 

Langner (Lawrence)—Another Way Ou 

MacMillan (Mary)—The Shadowed Sta 

Millay (Edna St. Vincent)—Aria da Cap 

Moeller (Philip)—Helena’s Husband 

O'Neill (Eugene)—lle 

Stevens (Thomas Wood)—The Nurser 
Maid of Heaven | 

Stevens (Wallace)—Three Travelers Watc 
a Sunrise 

Tompkins (Frank G.)—Sham 

Walker eraay noe Medicine Show 

Wellman (Rita)—For All Time 

Wilde (Percival) —The Finger of God 


YIDDISH 


Asch (Sholom)—Night 
Pinski (David)—Forgotten Souls 


Net, $5.00 


34 Turkey Morocco $10.00 


STEWART KIDD 


PUBLISHER 


























Stewart Kidd Dramatic Anthologies 





TWENTY CONTEMPORARY ONE-ACT PLAYS 
AMERICAN 


Edited by FRANK SHAY 


a awe volume represents a careful and intelligent selection of 
the best One-act Plays written by Americans and produced 
by the Little Theatres in America during the season of 1921. 
They are representative of the best work of writers in this field 
and show the high level to which the art theatre has risen in 
America. 

The editor has brought to his task a love of the theatre and 
a knowledge of what is best through long association with the 
leading producing groups. 

The volume contains the repertoires of the leading Little 
Theatres, together with bibliographies of published plays and 
books on the theatre issued since January, 1920, 

Aside from its individual importance, the volume, together 
with Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays, will make up the 
most important collection of short plays published. 


In the Book are 


the following Plays by the following Authors 
INIT AE Re stalin ciation tad orred deal tee aatedaret George M. P. Baird 
Napoleon S/Barbeny. 545 sie sins cise oe taieineroae Arthur Ceser 
COREA Vis ttt bier Re cei Ernest Howard Culbertson 
Sweetinnch i Weneysecnn oes care non Mei Stoune Floyd Dell 
sLickless Times oes. Susan Glaspell and George Cram Cook 
The Hero of Santa Maria. ...Kenneth Sawyer Goodman and 
Ben Hecht 
PAUGGUICtL Me Dis eee yee ts aes fine Harry Wagstaff Gribble 
PUOMISSOUNS MEUCK eit acveene es. Harry Greenwood Grover 
ata tDeortinns cians. ie isin sete mt reG Carl W. Guske 
Pearl Ot Dawicen ne bh eras eee Holland Hudson 
Pincers-cepers's 4. ean due Pee ets eee eee George Kelly 
OlOMONISE SON Airossks crc cme eds eas lena Ore eae ke Harry Kemp 
WMiatinata ly sein eitetaists ieee cat urges cies Lawrence Langner 
ane Gontlicta Pi eetcers bo eens Clarice Vallette McCauley 
wo Slatterns anda King............ Edna St. Vincent Millay 
Gnuirsday YE vengeance: eos ein eee sue Christopher Oey 
ores By cette chip) Gite Penta ue ena ee erates Ae ey ener Eugene O'Neill 
RorbiddentHruitarsc: suis indie ee aon George J. Smith 
oC ol BARR Ae REN 7 rae Pg tO are ir Dorothy Stockbridge 
Sir David Wears a Crown. ck eete se ot .»,,stuart Walker 


12mo. Silk Cloth $ 3.75 
34 Turkey Morocco $10.00 


STEWART KIDD PUBLISHERS 























Stewart Kidd Plays 


MASTERPIECES 
OF MODERN SPANISH 
DRAMA 


EDITED, WITH A PREFACE, BY 


BARRETT HH. CLakk 





“A volume that will prove of unusual interest to lovers of the 
theatre."'"—Brooklyn Daily Eagle. 

The collection of plays in this volume has a distinct value, 
representing, as it does, three varied aspects of the dramatic 
genius of Spain—Echegaray, Galdés and Guimerd, the Catalon- 
ian Nationalist. 

Two of the plays, the ‘‘Duchess of San Quentin’and “Daniela,” 
have never before been translated. 

Mr. Clark, the editor, who is well-known to all lovers and 
students of the drama, gives, in his prefaces, a concise and illumi- 
nating survey of the drama in Spain, both old and new. 

Each play is preceded by a biographical sketch and a complete 
chronological list of the dramatist’s works. 

THE GREAT GALEOTO, a tragedy, by José Echegaray, 
translated by Eleanor Bontecou (presented to the American public 
by Wm. Faversham, under the title ‘The World and his Wife’’) 
awe “fan instance of Echegaray’s melodramatic and essentially 
Spanish genius.” 

DANIELA, a tragic drama, by Angel Guimera, translated by 
John Garrett Underhill. ‘‘Daniela comes to us with all the force 
of a new sensation, ....by virtue of the profound and tragic 
poetry of its theme. (It) is of the great order.” —The Dial. 

THE DUCHESS OF SAN QUENTIN, a comedy, by 
Benito Pérez-Galdés, translated by Philip M. Hayden. ‘‘Galdés 
has done a rare bit of character portrayal."-—Cleveland Plain 
Dealer. 

‘‘All the plays are essentially racial and as such will deeply 
interest the student of European Drama.’’"—Argonaut. 


12mo. Silk Cloth. Net $2.50 
34 Turkey Morocco, $7.50 


STEWART KIDD PUBLISHERS 














Stewart Kidd Dramatic Anthologies 


European Theories of the Drama 


By BARRETT H. CLARK 


An Anthology of Dramatic Theory and Criticism from Aristotle to the present day 
in a series of selected texts, with Commentaries, Biographies and Bibliographies 





A book of paramount importance. This monumental 
anthology assembles for the first time the epoch-making 
theories and criticisms of the drama from the beginnings in 
Greece to the present, and each excerpt is chosen with reter- 
ence to its effect on subsequent dramatic writing. The texts 
alone are immensely valuable, and the comments constitute a 
history of dramatic criticism. 


It is the most important body of doctrine on the drama to 
be obtained, appeals to all who are interested in the theatre, 
and is indispensable to students. 


The introduction to each section of the book is followed 
by an exhaustive bibliography. Each writer whose work is 
represented is made the subject of a brief biography. The 
entire volume is rendered doubly valuable by the index, which 


is worked out in great detail. 


Contributors to the Success of this Volume: 


Aristotle Moliere Goethe 
Horace Racine Schlegel 
Donatus - Boileau Hebbel 

Dante Saint-Evremont Wagner 
Daniello Dryden Freytag 
Minturno Milton Hugo 

Scaliger Rymer Dumas fils 
Sebillet Congreve Sarcey 

De la Taille Farquhar Zola 
Cervantes Addison Brunetiere 
Lope de Vega Johnson Maeterlinck 
Tirso de Molina Goldsmith Coleridge 
Sidney Goldoni Lamb 

Jonson Lessing Hazlitt 

Ogier Voltaire Pinero 
Chapelain Diderot Jones 

Abbe d’Aubignac Beaumarchais Shaw 
Corneille Schiller Archer 

Large 8vo, 500 pages. « « « « « Net $5.00 
34 Brown Turkey Morocco .. . ~ Net $12.00 














FIVE ONE-ACT 
COMEDIES 


By Lawrence Langner 
Introduction by St. John Ervine 


Wi Raisers one-act comedies have unusual variety 
and originality, and have been produced suc- 
cessfully by the Washington Square Players, the 
Provincetown Players, and other theatre groups 
throughout the country. Mr. Langner posesses that 
gift which is rarest in American playwrights—a 
keen sense of satire and a sure touch. His comedies, 
which read as well as they act, show a humorous 
understanding of human relations and institutions. 
Mr. Langner was one of the founders of the Wash- 
ington Square Players and the Theatre Guild, and 
is a pioneer in the new theatre movement in Amer- 
ica. As George Jean Nathan says: ‘“‘ This Langner 
will bear watching. He is a fellow of ideas and 
genuine humor.” 


The plays are: Matinata (2 m. 1w.) Another 
Way Out (2 m. 3 w.) The Family Exit (4 m. 3 w.) 
Pie (2m. 2 w.) Licensed (1 m. 2 w.) Roscoe W. 
Brink in the New York Tribune: ‘Smart, finished 
and polished things they are."’ Houston Post : “Re- 
freshing plays, streaked with humor and original- 
ity. New York Evening Post: “Sure comedy 
touch, clever dialogue and actable scenes."" George 
Bernard Shaw, in a letter to the author: ‘The plays 
are very good: I read them all through with undi- 
minished appetite ; and so did my wife.” 


Silk Cloth. 165 pages. 12mo. $2.00. 
34 Turkey Morocco, $7.50. 


STEWART KIDD PUBLISHERS 

















| 














THREE ONE-ACT PLAYS 


By Stark Young 
Dramatic Critic of ““The New Republic.” 


Theatre Arts Magazine : ‘The material for the plays is well 
chosen from corners of our American life not too familiar. 
They are all tragedies of character, all built on the theme 
of sacrifice for love, swift-moving, real, and convincing. 
The characters are individuals and not types, and every 
one is a part worth playing.” Dallas Morning News: 
“Instinct with tragedy—dramatic, poetic—with a strong 
Bppeal tothe heart. All of them lend themselves admir- 
ably to use in Little Theatres, and all are delightful as 
reading plays.” Oakland Tribune: ‘‘Admirably adapted 
for Little Theatre production.” 

The plays: Madretta. (2 m.1w.) At the Shrine. 
(1m.1w.) Addio. (3 m. 1 w.) 


Silk cloth. 66 pages. 12mo. $1.35. 
3% Turkey Morocco, $7.50. 


RED BUD WOMEN 
By Mark O’Dea 


Foreword by Pierre Loving 


Four one-act plays which present the tragic spiritual 
wastes of farm and village life. They have all been pro- 
duced by Little Theatres. El Paso Times: ‘‘Powerful, 
vivid, and unusually sincere. O'Dea has done for farm 
women what Sinclair Lewis did for small-town women in 
‘Main Street.*’” Harry Hansen, of the Chicago Daily News: 
‘‘O’Dea’s plays are worthy of a place beside those of 
Eugene O'Neill, for O'Dea is one of the few native drama- 
tists who share with O'Neill the ability to wrest from our 
own soil themes of tremendous power.” W. L. George: 
“TI recommend ‘Red Bud Women because of its deep sin- 
cerity, its dramatic power, and its great intensity.” 

The plays: The Song of Solomon. (2m.3 w.) Shivaree. 
(2m.2w.) Miss Myrtle Says “Yes.” (1 m.3w.) Not 
in the Lessons. A farce. (2 m. 2 w.) 


Silk Cloth. 123 pages. 12mo. $2.00. 
34 Turkey Morocco, $7.50. 


STEWART KIDD PUBLISHERS 

















— 








GOAT ALLEY 


By Ernest Howard Culbertson 
Introduction by Ludwig Lewisohn 


A drama of Negro life in three acts. First presented at 
the Bijou Theatre, New York City, in June, 1921. (7 m. 
4w.) New York Tribune: “A stunning tragedy. In the 
characterization there is fine perception and vivid writing. 
There is heartbreak in this play.” Oakland Tribune: 
‘‘Splendidly and heroically written. A play to meditate 
over.” Winnipeg Tribune: ‘‘A play that hurts, like ‘John 
Ferguson,’ from first to last." Ludwig Lewisohn: ‘‘Every 
triangle play is a ‘Medea.’ There are subjects that are 
classical because they are native to the character and cir- 
cumstances of mankind. Such is the subject of Goat 
Alley. No American play has had a finer or truer moment 
than that at the end of the second act when Lucy Belle, 
her lodger lost, her money stolen, her child crying with 
hunger, consents quietly, yet in such despair, to rent her 
vacant room to the worthless, ingratiating barber. Haupt- 
mann would not have disdained that quiet moment of 
rich, tragic implications; Galsworthy would have approved 
it.’ Tuskegee Student: ‘‘A brilliant and bitterdrama . . 
strong, vividly dramatic, absorbing and well written in the 
natural Negro dialect and colloquialism of today. We 
marvel at Mr. Culbertson’s familiar acquaintance with the 
Negro and Negro speech." George Jean Nathan: ‘‘Prob- 
ably the most acute transcription of the Negro yet made 
visible in our native dramatic literature." Walter Prichard 
Eaton: ‘‘A real American tragedy . . . simply, directly, 
pitifully true.” New York Herald: ‘‘The characters have 
the breath of life." Cleveland Plain Dealer: ‘‘As important 
a contribution to American dramatic literature, we should 
say, as anything of O'Neill's.” 


Silk Cloth. 155 pages. 12mo. $1.75. 
34 Turkey Morocco, $7.50. 


STEWART KIDD PUBLISHERS 
































PLAYS 
FOR A FOLDING THEATRE 


By Colin Campbell Clements 
Frontispiece by Ralph Barton 


The seven plays contained in this book can be produced 
in any theatre and on any stage, no matter how inflexible. 
There are three Pierrot-Columbine plays, three plays of 
the East, and one of the sea—all of them artistic and 
planned, as the title suggests, for production on small 
stages. For several of the plays Mr. Clements has de- 
signed sets. Three Lepers of Suk-El-Garab is being pro- 
duced this winter in the new French Theatre in Beyrouth, 
Syria, where Mr. Clements was living when he wrote the 
play several years ago. 


The plays are: Pierrot in Paris. A morality play in 
one act, the moral being that he also sees who only sits 
and sits. In a little French café one night all life comes 
to Pierrot . . . and passes him by. 20 minutes. 
(2m.3w.) Columbine. A play in one act, wherein is 
shown that Love's experience can’t teach Love's inexpe- 
rience nor thwart its verdant hope. 25 minutes. (2 w.) 
The Return of Harlequin. A play in one act, with Har- 
lequin just returned from the war and face to face with 
an unexpected adventure—a little Harlequin. 20 min- 
utes. (1 m.1w.) Three Lepers of Suk-El-Garab. A 
drama in one act, with all the color, music, and fatalism 
of the East. 25 minutes. (3 m.) The Desert. A drama 
in one act, based on an old Arabic legend told to the 
author one day in Damascus by an Arab sheik. 25 min- 
utes. (3m.6w.) The Siege. A drama in one act, on 
an actual experience in Arabia in 1920. Henry Bordeaux, 
of the French Academy, says of it: ‘‘I should like to see 
it done in French. Mr. Clements makes one feel that 
thing that is the East." 20 minutes. (3 w.) Moon Tide. 
A play in one act in which the sea “crawlin’ up out of 
the black mud" avenges the murder of Old Hank, who 
‘loved her as if she was human flesh and blood.” 20 
minutes. (2 m.) 


Silk Cloth. 165 pages. 12mo. $2.00. 
34 Turkey Morocco, $7.50. 


STEWART KIDD PUBLISHERS 

















| 











Plays by Mary MacMillan 





For Women’s Clubs, Girls’ Schools, etc.—‘‘Jn all of 
them will be found a rich and delicate charm, a bountiful 
endowment of humor and wit, a penetrating knowledge of 
human nature, and a deft touch in the drawing of charac- 
ter. They are delicately and sympathetically done and 
their ee charm is undeniable.’—Brooklyn Daily 
Eagle. 


SHORT PLAYS 


The Shadowed Star.—The Ring.—The Rose.—Luck.— 
Entr Act.—A Woman's a Woman for A’ That.—A 
Fan and Two Candlesticks.—A Modern Masque.— 
The Futurists.—The Gate of Wishes. 


$2.50. 


MORE SHORT PLAYS 


His Second Girl.—At the Church Door.—Honey.—The 
Dress Rehearsal of Hamlet.—The Pioneers.—In Men- 
delesia, Part I; In Mendelesia, Part I].—The Dryad. 


$2.50. 


THIRD BOOK OF SHORT PLAYS 


A Weak-End.—In Heaven.—Standing Moving.—An 
Apocryphal Episode.—The Storm.—When Two's Not 
Company.—Peter Donelly. 


$2.50. 


A FAN AND TWO CANDLESTICKS 


Published separately as No. 3 of the Stewart Kidd 
Little Theatre Plays. 


50 cents. 


STEWART KIDD PUBLISHERS 

















— ne 


me 
Cas 








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